


hope we'll be better than the past

by biblionerd07



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Ableist Language, Anxiety, Bar fights, Bipolar Disorder, Cows, Established Relationship, Father Figures, Healing, Homophobia, M/M, Moving In Together, Nature, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Prison, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-23 00:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20882948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: Ian wants to leave Chicago when Mickey gets out of prison, intent on a fresh start together. Unfortunately, leaving a place doesn't always mean leaving the problems you faced there.





	hope we'll be better than the past

**Author's Note:**

> Hello did you ever want 36k of Ian and Mickey dealing with their issues while Mickey works on a farm and gains pseudo-parents? Then this is the fic for you!

“This is going to be good,” Ian says for probably the fiftieth time in the two hours they’ve been driving. Mickey just grunts. He doesn’t think Ian needs much input at this point. Mickey’s been out of prison for six hours and they’ve been driving for about four of them. First they drove to the Gallagher house so they could fuck in a bed and pick up some last odds and ends and Liam. Now they’ve been driving for another two hours, heading south.

Ian hatched this little plan during the eight months he was out before Mickey. He sprung it on Mickey one morning during their fifteen-minute phone call, and Mickey had laughed and said, “Knock yourself out” because he’d thought Ian was kidding. He hadn’t realized Ian was serious until two months later when Ian came for a visit and started talking about the house he found to rent and the school he was enrolling Liam in.

“Hold up, you really went through with it?” Mickey had blurted.

Ian’s mouth had dropped open. “Mick, I asked you! You said it was a good idea!”

Mickey still knows he never said _that,_ but he didn’t point that out. He’d licked his lips and tilted his head and said, “This ain’t like you running off to the Army, is it? You gonna stick me with your kid brother and crash a car or something in three months?”

He didn’t think it was an unfair question, with everything they’d been through over all these years. Ian obviously knew it, too, because all he did was his pissy nostril-flare that meant he was annoyed but knew he couldn’t be mad for real.

“I’m not manic,” he’d said, all miffed like Mickey was the one being ridiculous. “This isn’t some impulsive decision, Mickey. I’ve been planning this for months now.” He gave Mickey a look. “You with me or not?”

“Okay,” Mickey said with a shrug.

Ian had narrowed his eyes. “Okay?” He’d echoed suspiciously. “Just like that, you’re on board?”

Mickey had shrugged again. “What do I care where we go?” He’d asked. “Long as I’m out of this fucking place and you’re there.”

Ian’s face had gone all soft and fond. That fucking face—even just the _promise_ of that face—is how Mickey finds himself driving south through dusty cornfields and podunk little nothing towns.

Mickey’s never really pictured himself living anywhere other than Chicago. And Mexico, sort of, but even when he’d been _in_ Mexico he hadn’t considered it a long-term thing. He hadn’t thought about going back to Chicago. He’d just assumed he’d die there. Between his dad and the cartel and being on the run from the cops, Mickey had never expected to make it this far. But here he is, about to turn twenty-five, alive, not wanted for any crimes, and leaving Chicago to go live in some bumfuck town with 3000 people in it. They had more kids in their high school than that.

“Almost there,” Ian points out, all chipper. “The house is so cool, Mick. We have a _garden_.”

“The fuck we gonna do with a garden?” Mickey asks.

“We can grow our own vegetables!” Ian says.

“Like what?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Ian admits. “You think I’ve ever grown a fucking garden?”

“I grew a petunia in a pot,” Liam reports. “For science class.”

“Yeah?” Mickey asks. “How’d that go?”

“It died. Lip peed on it while he was drunk.”

Ian makes a face. “No one’s going to drunk-piss on our plants.”

“Let’s not go making promises,” Mickey says. “I haven’t had anything but toilet hooch in like two years. My tolerance is probably shot to hell. Probably as bad as you now.”

“I don’t drink anymore,” Ian says loftily. “Just a beer or two with dinner.”

“That’s still drinking, dumbass,” Mickey points out with a laugh.

“_I_ don’t have to quit completely,” Ian says. “I got the crazy genes in the family, not the alcoholic ones.”

“Yeah, well, count your blessings,” Mickey says, looking out the window as they whiz by cow after cow. “You could’ve got both.”

Ian snorts. “Jesus, just what I’d need.”

“Wouldn’t that just make you Frank?” Liam pipes up from the back.

That makes Mickey laugh. The last time he saw that kid, he wasn’t even talking. He was old enough to talk, but they thought he was all fucked from the coke Fiona let him eat. Now he’s in middle school, all wise-cracking and acting hard. Mickey can’t help but like him. Maybe it’s just the way Ian hovers over him or some kind of lost childhood thing. Maybe it’s some transference shit since Mickey doesn’t have a fucking clue where his actual kid is and honestly isn’t planning to look too hard. Either way, he’s got a soft spot for the youngest Gallagher kid. Of Ian’s generation, anyway; apparently they’re starting to pop out more kids like rabbits now.

When Ian takes the exit for the town they’re apparently going to call home now, Mickey makes himself sit up and check it out. He needs to scope it out if they’re going to stay here long-term. There isn’t much to it; a bank, a bar, a grocery store, a diner. Further out, there’s one of those all-purpose garage places that does tires and oil changes and shit. A farm supply store. Mickey wonders idly if they have animals in there. Isn’t that what farms have? Cows and sheep and pigs? Doesn’t seem like a good idea to keep them in a store, but what does he know?

“Jesus, we even live _in_ this town?” Mickey asks as Ian keeps driving.

“No, actually,” Ian says. “We’re just outside the town. But our landlord said our address is still there.”

“Frank said I’m probably going to be the only black kid in the school,” Liam says apprehensively.

“Yeah, well, sorry to say Frank’s probably right,” Ian admits with a little wince.

“Great,” Liam mutters.

“Hey, girls’ll be all over that,” Mickey says. “Anytime Mandy wanted to piss Terry off, she’d go straight for a—” He stops himself before he says something he shouldn’t. He didn’t run with his dad’s crew in prison, since the skinheads weren’t exactly welcoming to gays, either, but a lifetime of Terry Milkovich didn’t make Mickey’s vocabulary all that different from the skinheads most of the time. He’s working on it.

“I don’t really want a girlfriend,” Liam says. “Learned my lesson.”

“The fuck’s that mean?” Mickey asks. He knows what it meant for him at that age, but he sure didn’t feel as casual about it as Liam sounds now.

“It’s a long story,” Ian says, a little nugget of anger in his voice. “He doesn’t bat for our team, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. Pretty sure, anyway.”

“You gay?” Mickey asks.

Liam shrugs. “How can you tell?”

“You want to jerk it to dudes?”

“Jesus, Mick,” Ian mutters.

“No,” Liam says, wrinkling his nose.

“Well, that’s how you tell,” Mickey says. “You want to jerk it to chicks?”

“Can you stop asking my baby brother about jerking off?”

“I do jerk off to girls,” Liam says.

“There you go,” Mickey says. “Not gay.”

“Maybe,” Ian says. “Some guys don’t realize until they’re older.”

“No way,” Mickey says skeptically. “You’re telling me some guy jerks off to chicks his whole life and then one day he wakes up and wants dick? I don’t believe that.”

“How do you think Ned and Kash both ended up married?” Ian asks triumphantly.

“I think they were pussies who wouldn’t admit they were gay and went for chicks instead,” Mickey says disgustedly. “Doesn’t mean they ever actually wanted pussy.”

“Well…” Ian tips his head, conceding. “Okay, that’s true. I don’t think it makes them pussies, though. I mean, there’s an argument there about you.”

Mickey makes a face. “You know exactly how I ended up married. And anyway, we don’t need to go making excuses for dudes who want to fuck little boys,” Mickey says.

“I wasn’t a little boy,” Ian contradicts, rolling his eyes. “I was a teenager.”

“You looked like Little Orphan Annie.”

“_You_ liked it,” Ian says, looking over for a second and wiggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah, and I looked like…I don’t know, whatever the Ukrainian version of that is. Little Orphan…Olga or what the fuck ever.”

Ian’s cracking up. “You mostly just looked like a kid who’d never had a bath.”

“Are we almost there?” Liam cuts into their reminiscing. “I have to pee.”

“We are…” Ian pauses theatrically as he turns into what’s obviously their driveway. “Here!” Mickey looks back at Liam so they can exchange an eyeroll at Ian’s dramatics. Ian hands Liam a key and admonishes him not to lose it. “That’s yours,” Ian says. “And I’m not paying for another copy.”

“Yeah, you will,” Liam says.

“Go in and pee,” Ian says, not admitting Liam’s right. “Mick and I are gonna look around out here.”

Liam takes his backpack with him. Mickey’s glad he’s going in. He doesn’t really like an audience when he’s checking out a new place. Ian doesn’t count. Ian just helps.

“There’s a back door,” Ian reports. “Just the two doors, though.”

“Not a door in the basement?” Mickey asks, bending down to look at the windows.

“It’s just a storm cellar,” Ian says. “Not an actual room.”

“Big enough to take shelter in though, right?” Mickey says. “So big enough for someone to hide out in.”

“It has its own door,” Ian assures him. “They could hide out there, but it won’t take them right into the house.”

“Okay, good,” Mickey says. “We can padlock it.”

“Already did,” Ian says. “First thing I did when I was moving in.”

“Smart,” Mickey praises.

“Paranoid,” Ian corrects. “But if it makes you feel safer, fine.”

“You remember I rolled on a fucking cartel, right?” Mickey points out. “This isn’t me freaking out about my dad finding us anymore.”

“I know,” Ian says. He steps closer and puts his hands on Mickey’s hips. Mickey sucks in a breath involuntarily. Eight months is a long fucking time to go without Ian touching him. Even when they were inside together, they couldn’t do a lot of casual touching. It wasn’t like they could go around holding hands in _prison_. They still got to steal touches whenever they could, though. But after Ian got out, Mickey wasn’t swimming in positive touches. Ian hasn’t gone five minutes without touching him since Mickey walked out of that place, but it’s still taking some readjusting. It’s only been a few hours. “We’re gonna keep each other safe,” Ian promises.

He knows Mickey’s less afraid of dying himself and more afraid of someone getting Ian. Half of their time inside was Mickey looking over Ian’s shoulder, getting in fights if anyone got too close. It’s not like Ian can’t handle himself in a fight; he knows shit Mickey doesn’t, all those hand-to-hand moves Mickey never learned because he was used to throwing brass-knuckled punches and baseball bats at people. But Mickey wanted Ian keeping his nose clean. His family was waiting for him, needing him. Mickey didn’t have anyone waiting.

Well, he had Ian, when the time came. That’s sure as hell good enough for Mickey.

“You picked a good spot,” Mickey says. “Not a real busy road, doesn’t look like. We’ll know if someone’s coming.”

“And we got gravel so we’ll hear them before they park,” Ian says proudly. “Should we get a dog?”

Mickey makes a face. “Gotta pay to feed a dog, and it only takes one bullet in the right spot to get a dog out of the way, even a big one.”

Ian blinks at him. “That’s…horrifying.”

Mickey shrugs. “What, you thought we were making picnic plans?”

Ian pulls Mickey in even closer. “We could have a picnic out here,” he says in Mickey’s ear. “Spread out a blanket and look at the stars.”

“Christ,” Mickey mutters. He kisses Ian just to shut him up. And because it’s almost impossible not to, when he’s that close.

The screen door on the front porch bangs closed and Mickey jumps. Liam’s standing on the porch with his hands on his hips. “Are you guys going to just to stay out here all day? You have a bed inside. You can come in and fuck.”

“You want to hear us fuck?” Mickey asks.

“No, but I want Ian to make me some food.”

“You’re like twelve, can’t you make your own food?” Mickey asks.

“I’m thirteen,” Liam corrects, offended.

“We’re coming,” Ian cuts off any further argument. “I got stuff to make lasagna tonight.”

“Fuck yeah,” Mickey says happily. “Fucking love lasagna.”

“What?” Ian says, all fake surprised. “What a coincidence! I never could’ve planned to make your favorite food the day you get out of prison.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but he can feel himself starting to blush a little and he has to bite his lip to hold back a smile. Then he decides not to bite his lip and smiles instead. Ian did that for him. Ian found this place, found a job so his parole officer couldn’t get pissed, made sure it would be as safe as possible for Mickey. He found them a place to breathe, a place without all the bad memories their neighborhood has. And he’s making Mickey lasagna. Mickey can smile about that.

Ian laughs a little, almost giddy, and Mickey has to kiss him again, just because he can. He’s not sure when that’s ever going to get old.

Ian had to get a job lined up before he could move or his PO would be on his ass. He’s working construction. It kind of makes Mickey’s stomach hurt, thinking about Ian poring over all those math books and testing out of English just to wind up busting rocks like any other idiot could do.

But the fucking asshole went and got himself a destruction of property felony, so his options are kind of shot. And in a small town like this, there’s not much to do anyway. He gets to be outside, at least, and manual labor gives him an excuse to show off his muscles. He loves doing that. Mickey doesn’t mind so much, either. He doesn’t love other people looking, but he knows Ian’s coming home just to him, so whatever. They can see what he gets and they don’t.

Liam has two weeks before school starts. Ian had to forge some paperwork making it look like Fiona officially wanted him taking Liam and being in charge of him. As far as Mickey knows, the truth is she left and didn’t really give a shit what happened to Liam. From what Ian’s said, Liam knows it and he doesn’t feel so hot about it. He didn’t put up much of a fight over moving with Ian.

For now, Liam and Mickey are kind of just hanging around the house all day until Ian gets home. It’s a little weird. Mickey hasn’t spent much time with kids since he was one. Before he went away the first time, he changed the baby’s diapers and stuck a bottle in his mouth every now and then, but the baby couldn’t say anything. Mickey doesn’t know if he’s supposed to talk to Liam or just leave him alone. But they don’t have a TV and they don’t have internet yet, so Liam must be pretty bored. Mickey’s going around installing chains on the doors and locks on the windows, and Liam follows him for a while.

“What are you doing?” He asks curiously.

Mickey’s got a mouthful of screws, so it takes him a few seconds to answer. “Gotta make sure all these doors and windows lock up tight.”

“Why? Fiona always said only rich people and drug dealers need to keep their shit that locked up.”

Mickey huffs. “Yeah, well, I rolled on a Mexican drug cartel. I’m not worried about our shit so much as us.”

Liam thinks that over. “They’re gonna kill you?”

“Maybe,” Mickey admits. “Or maybe they take Ian and hurt him to get to me.”

Liam’s eyes are all big and round now. “Are they gonna kill Ian?”

Mickey realizes this is the kind of shit he’s supposed to shield a kid from. “Uh, no,” Mickey says, filling his voice with casual bravado. “Come on, you know how many times I been locked up? You know my family? I know plenty of ways to keep him safe.”

That seems to satisfy Liam. “We should’ve gotten locks like this to keep Frank out.”

Mickey snorts. “Not like it would’ve mattered with somebody always being a sentimental pussy and letting him in.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Debbie,” he says.

“Hey, don’t go pointing fingers,” Mickey says. “I heard it was you once or twice.”

Liam shrugs, looking down at the floor now. “Just when I was younger. I was dumber. I thought he’d—” He cuts himself off and makes a face. Mickey knows what he means. He thought Frank would be good to him. He thought Frank being his dad meant anything. Now he knows better. It’s a shitty feeling, no matter how old you are when you learn it for real.

This is where Ian would say something all nice and make Liam feel better. Ian’s good at that shit. Mickey, on the other hand, is absolutely not. He doesn’t even know Liam, and he sure as hell doesn’t know what to say that changes the fact Frank’s an asshole deadbeat who only cares about himself. Mickey juts his chin at the pile of screws he set on the windowsill.

“You want to do the other side?” He asks, holding out the drill.

Liam’s eyes light up. “Fiona said power tools were too dangerous for anyone who shared a room with Carl.”

That makes Mickey laugh. “She’s probably right,” he says. “But you don’t share a room with Carl anymore, so go nuts.”

He helps Liam line up the screws with their brackets and they finish the lock. Liam whirrs the drill. “What else can I screw?”

That makes Mickey laugh harder than he should, but he just leads Liam out to the storm cellar to put an extra lock on it, too.

Mickey goes to pick Ian up from work. Ian apparently thinks Mickey can make a good impression and get a job there, too, which is pretty fucking stupid, in Mickey’s opinion. He’s never made a good impression in his life.

As Mickey suspected, the guy looks kind of alarmed when he sees Mickey. His eyes snag on Mickey’s knuckles and then his forearm, like half the guys on his crew aren’t tatted up. Sure, Mickey’s forearm looks pretty fucking gang-related, but whatever.

Now that they’re here instead of still on the South Side, it’s not even true anymore.

“Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “All full for the next long while.” Ian’s face falls and Mickey just rolls his eyes. But the dude must have a soft spot for Ian, because he adds, “Think I heard Joel Wilhelm talking about needing a new hand.”

“You telling me this place has a fucking hand whore business?” Mickey asks incredulously. The guy’s eyes go all big and wide.

“No, Mickey, not—no,” Ian says quickly. “A _farm_hand.”

“Oh.” Mickey feels kind of stupid, because that makes a hell of a lot more sense than a town this side having a thriving rub and tug. But what the fuck ever, like he’s ever been to a farm.

“Thanks, Ed,” Ian says, forcefully cheerful to cover up Ed’s horror at Mickey’s mistake. Mickey shrugs it off. Just confirming what the guy already thought about him anyway.

“Hope he doesn’t fire you over me,” Mickey says as they drive off.

Ian looks surprised. “Why would he?”

“Your white-trash thug friend shows up and you don’t think he’s going to have some questions?”

“He hired me on parole for a felony,” Ian points out. “He can’t be surprised we’re not Boy Scouts. And he knows you’re not my friend.”

Fear shoots through Mickey’s stomach on instinct. He breathes through it. “You put up a sign or something?”

Ian snorts. “I just didn’t lie when anyone asked.” He looks at Mickey for a second. “You can, if you want.”

“Can what?” Mickey asks, mystified.

“Lie. Say we’re friends or cousins or cellmates or whatever.”

Mickey scratches a hand through his hair. “Well, it doesn’t really matter what I say if you already went around telling people, does it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ian says. His voice is off. He’s trying to sound casual and unemotional. It might work for other people. It doesn’t work on Mickey. Mickey licks his lips and shoots a look over at Ian.

“Don’t need to lie, anyway,” he says, because it’s obviously bugging Ian. “Only ever had to because I didn’t want my dad to know. Now he knows, so I don’t give a fuck who else does.”

“Really?” Ian asks. “You don’t care if everyone we meet clocks us?”

Mickey shrugs. “I don’t know how many times I’m gonna have to tell you this before you get it,” he says. He checks the road ahead, but they haven’t seen another car in at least a mile, so he gestures at Ian. “Come here,” he says, tugging at Ian’s chin and pulling him over for a kiss. “I didn’t want to fucking die, okay? I was afraid of my dad and we had to be careful inside so we didn’t get jumped. But out here? My dad already knows and we’re out of prison. Fuck, I’ll put up a sign if you want.”

Ian laughs a little and pushes at Mickey’s face. “Watch the road.” He’s grinning, and he doesn’t move all the way over back to his seat. He rests his hand on Mickey’s thigh; not like he’s going to get up to anything, he sets it there like he just wants to be touching Mickey. “I don’t think we need a sign,” he decides. “If people ask, we’ll tell ‘em, and if I’m talking about you, I’ll call you my boyfriend. Just like anyone else.”

“Doubt there’s a lot of fags around this place,” Mickey points out. He doesn’t know shit about farms, but he knows enough about how the world works to know any gay kids who might’ve grown up here probably left the second they could.

“That doesn’t scare you?” Ian checks.

Mickey makes a face. “After my dad and the skinheads inside, you think some old fuck in overalls scares me?”

Ian nods. He’s still smiling. “We should stop by that guy’s farm right now and see if he’ll hire you.”

Mickey puts his hand on top of Ian’s and slides both their hands higher up his thigh. “I had some other ideas about what we could do.”

“Liam’s waiting at home,” Ian reminds him.

“Who said anything about home?” Mickey asks. “We got this whole truck to ourselves.”

Ian shakes his head. “You need a job.”

“I’m not on parole,” Mickey points out.

“Yeah, but we got bills to pay.”

Mickey sighs. “Fine. Not like I spent eight months alone in there with just my hand after you got parole.” He cuts his eyes over to Ian, quick, so Ian knows he’s mostly joking. He doesn’t actually like guilting Ian about the whole prison thing. Ian never asked him to turn himself in and roll on the cartel. That was all Mickey. Probably stupid as fuck to do, but he doesn’t regret it. Maybe that’ll change when the cartel actually does catch up to him, but it’s hard to regret anything that brings him Ian.

“Don’t guilt-trip me,” Ian says with a laugh. “How ‘bout this. We go to the guy’s farm, and if you’re good and get a job, I’ll blow you one the way home.”

“Deal,” Mickey says eagerly. Ian laughs at him again, but Ian’s just about the only person Mickey’s never minded laughing at him.

A dog runs out when they drive up to the farmer guy’s house. Dogs make Mickey nervous. He’s never been around any dogs that weren’t chasing him. He always deserved being chased by the dogs, because it was usually when he was beating down or robbing their owners, but still.

An old guy walks out of the barn. He’s probably like sixty. That doesn’t feel as old as it used to when Mickey was a kid, but sixty still seems mind-bogglingly old. Mickey’s never even considered living that long. His dad’s the oldest living Milkovich, and his insides are running on pure hatred at this point.

“’Lo there,” the guy says cautiously.

“Hi,” Ian says, looking up from where he’d been warily petting the dog. Ian’s not used to nice dogs any more than Mickey is, but he’s more trusting for whatever reason. “We heard you were looking for a farmhand.”

The guy looks them both over. “I only need one.”

“That’s okay,” Ian says. “I work with Ed. This is Mickey, and he was thinking he could help you out.”

The guy raises his eyebrows. “He don’t talk?”

“I can fucking talk,” Mickey says defensively. Ian gives him a look and Mickey sighs. He’s never had to be pleasant for a job before. Ian got him the job at Kash and Grab, and being hard was an essential part of his interview process with the cartel. But this guy has a bunch of flowers around his front yard and a dog who’s licking Mickey’s fingers. He’s not looking for a banger.

The dude looks pretty unimpressed. But he doesn’t look scared, at least. Mickey clears his throat. “I don’t know how to do any farm shit,” he says baldly. “But I’m strong. That’s good, right? Fucking…carrying buckets or something?”

Ian looks a little despairing. Mickey probably shouldn’t swear so much when he’s trying to get a job. But it’s not like he’s going to watch his language all the time while he’s working, so he figures he should let the guy know what he’s getting into here.

“Why do you want to work on a farm?” The guy asks.

“I don’t,” Mickey admits. “I just want to work.” He shrugs. “Being outside’s good.”

“You do drugs?”

Mickey shrugs again. “Not anymore.”

“You gonna steal from me?”

Mickey looks around. “Something to steal around here? Don’t know how the fuck I’d steal a cow or what I’d do with it.”

The guy nods. He looks at Mickey thoughtfully and Mickey tries not to squirm. People looking at him closely doesn’t usually turn out very well for either party. “What jobs have you had before this?” The guy asks. Ian coughs uncomfortably.

“Sales and management, mostly,” Mickey says vaguely. “Some landscaping.” If grounds crew in prison can be considered landscaping.

“And security,” Ian pipes up. “For Linda, remember?”

Like Mickey could forget. He’s pretty sure if he and Ian weren’t in the same space every day for hours on end, not just fucking but talking and laughing, a whole lot of the shit that happened wouldn’t have happened. While Mickey was locked up the first time, he thought that angrily, but on this side of things, he’s happy for it.

“I’m Joel,” the guy says, sticking out his hand. Mickey doesn’t really like shaking hands—there’s a lot of ways someone can hurt you while you think you’re just shaking hands—but he knows this is some sort of test, so he makes himself do it. Joel nods at him. “You a hard worker?”

“He is,” Ian says confidently. “He had the highest…sales. In his company.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “He your interpreter or something?”

Mickey raises his chin. “Boyfriend.”

Joel’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“That a problem?”

Joel takes off his hat and brushes a hand through the sparse hair left on his head. Mickey _never_ wants to go bald. He thinks bald heads are weird looking. “Guess not,” Joel says slowly. “If it doesn’t affect your work.”

“How would it?” Mickey asks, annoyed. “You think a fag can’t shovel shit?”

Joel looks a bit uncomfortable. “Don’t know as I ever met one before.”

“Okay,” Mickey says with a shrug. “Ta-da. You giving me a job or not?”

Ian groans a little. “Mickey.”

Joel just looks at him some more for a minute. “Were you in prison, son?”

Mickey works not to look caught off-guard. “Yeah,” he says. “So?”

“How long you been out?”

Mickey glances back at Ian, who shrugs, looking as confused as Mickey feels. “Four days.”

Joel whistles. “That’s not long.”

Mickey has no idea what to say to that. It somehow feels like nothing and a lifetime at once. Waking up beside Ian in an actual bed, not in a tiny prison bunk, with a door that locks from the _inside_, still feels surreal. He’s half-worried this is still just a dream, a memory of better things back before it all fell to shit.

“Tell you what,” Joel says. “We’ll try it out. Give me a week of work and I’ll decide if I want to keep you on.”

“Okay,” Mickey says, still not sure how to react to this guy. He probably shouldn’t be surprised people can tell he just got out of prison. It’s practically written into his DNA.

“Can you come back tomorrow morning?” Joel asks. “Morning feed starts at five-thirty.”

“_AM_?” Mickey asks, aghast.

Joel looks amused. “AM.”

Mickey’s ready to say no just because of that. But he makes himself stop. It’s not like he’s going to have a lot of options. Besides his record, there’s his lack of education, his appearance, and his general attitude. Anything in customer service will be a huge hell no, and a town this size doesn’t have a lot of jobs that aren’t around people. If someone’s willing to give him a job, he doesn’t really have the luxury of being picky.

Mickey grits his teeth. “Fine.” Ian kicks him lightly and he remembers to add, “Thanks.”

“If you come a little early, my wife’ll feed you breakfast,” Joel says. “Does it for all the hands.”

“Uh…” Mickey probably shouldn’t be around any little old ladies. The last time he spent any time in an old lady’s house, he was robbing her and she shot him in the ass. And he doesn’t really want to meet anyone at five-thirty in the morning.

“We’ll see,” Ian supplies helpfully, tugging at the back of Mickey’s shirt so they can leave before Mickey talks the dude out of giving him this job.

“Okay,” Joel says easily. “See you tomorrow morning.”

Ian and Mickey stay quiet as they walk back to the truck. Once they’re inside with the doors closed, Mickey bursts out, “Five-thirty in the fucking morning?”

“Well, you know, I’ve always heard farmers get up early,” Ian points out.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey mutters, shaking his head as he checks to make sure he doesn’t run over his new boss’s dog. That probably wouldn’t earn him any points.

“You had to get up at six inside,” Ian reminds him.

“And now I’m _out_ of prison,” Mickey shoots back.

“Yeah, and here in the real world, plenty of people get up early.” Ian reaches down and unbuttons Mickey’s pants. Mickey obligingly lifts his hips so Ian can get his dick out. Mickey’s not sure how good he was, but he _did_ get the job, and Ian’s never one to back out of his end of a deal.

Ian has to drop Mickey off so he can drive to work later, and he doesn’t even complain when Mickey rests his head against the window and closes his eyes on the way there. Mickey’ll be closer to their house than Ian, so they made sure Liam has his Mickey’s number in case anything goes wrong.

“Keep all the doors and windows locked, okay?” Mickey told him while they were eating dinner the night before.

“There were gangs at home and no one cared where I was,” Liam had huffed. Neither Ian nor Mickey had had an answer to that.

“Alright,” Ian says when he rolls to a stop in Joel’s driveway. He smacks Mickey’s leg. “Good luck.”

Mickey groans. “Watch me get run down by a fucking cow.”

“Well, if you see any fucking cows, stay out of their way. I don’t like getting interrupted when I’m fucking so I wouldn’t blame them.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “You have the stupidest fucking jokes.”

Ian obviously doesn’t agree, because he’s laughing at his own bad joke. “See you tonight.”

“You hope,” Mickey mutters as he gets out of the car. Ian just flips him off and drives away. Mickey takes a second to roll out his neck and take a deep breath before walking toward the barn. Joel didn’t actually tell him where to go, and there’s no one else around.

It’s still dark, though the sun’s coming up, and the barn is practically pitch-black. Mickey huffs. What the fuck’s he supposed to do? A light flips on and from behind him, he hears,

“There’s a switch.” Mickey whirls around. It’s Joel. He looks down at Mickey’s boots. “Those waterproof?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey says. “Do they need to be?”

“Yep,” Joel says, unconcerned. “We gotta move the water. Come here.” He leads Mickey to a little closet and roots around. “See if these fit.”

They’re rubber boots like Mickey’s seen girls wear when it rains. Except the girls he’s seen wearing them usually don’t have black ones that are caked in mud and what smells like shit. They fit, and Joel nods, satisfied.

“Let’s go,” he says.

He doesn’t talk a whole lot as he shows Mickey how to load the hay into the back of the truck. Then he drives around in the pasture and Mickey has to throw hay out to the cows. It takes like an hour. There’s so many fucking cows. When they get back to the barn, Mickey says,

“Thought you said there were other dudes working here.”

“Used to be,” Joel says. “Most of ‘em went to bigger farms. During harvest and round-up I hire a few guys to help out, but I don’t keep many year-round. Small family farms ain’t what they used to be.”

“This is small?” Mickey asks. “You got like a thousand cows.”

Joel snorts. “Got eighty. Used to have two hundred.”

“What happened?” Mickey asks. Just his luck, there’s some kind of disease that wiped them out and now he’s going to get it. Wasn’t there a cow disease? He sort of remembers something from when he was a kid, before people moved onto the pig one and the bird one.

Joel shrugs. “Can’t compete with the big farms.”

They go around and move irrigation pipes in three different fields. The sun is out now, and Mickey’s sweating and getting sprayed with the sprinklers. He’s cranky by the time Joel drives them back to the house.

“Birdy’s got lunch for us,” Joel says. “Leave those boots on the back porch. We don’t take cow shit into the house.”

“Okay,” Mickey says uncertainly. His socks are actually clean and don’t have any holes for probably the first time in his entire life. Ian bought them for him brand new. Mickey’s never taken off his shoes before going into a house before, no matter how dirty they were. Before getting into bed, sure, but not going into the house. There was never much point in trying to keep the Milkovich house clean.

Birdy’s a small old lady. Mickey doesn’t have much knowledge of old ladies, so he has no idea how to tell how old she is. She has wrinkles on her face and gray hair, so that means old to him.

“Hi there,” she says. “You must be Mickey.”

“Uh huh,” Mickey says. It seems like a stupid thing to say. Obviously he’s Mickey. There isn’t even anyone else here; who the fuck else would he be? But he keeps his mouth shut. He’s tired, and he’s trying not to get kicked out on his first day.

“You like chicken, Mickey?”

“For what?” Mickey asks.

She tips her head, confused. “To eat?”

“Oh,” Mickey says, feeling his ears going red. “I didn’t—” He snaps his mouth closed. They have a farm. He thought she was asking if he liked actual chickens, like the ones outside he just stole a bunch of eggs from. He just nods, feeling like a dumbass.

He looks up from eating at one point to see Joel and Birdy both staring at him. He swallows his mouthful of food and shrugs.

“What?” He demands. So much for not getting kicked out.

“The food’s not going anywhere,” Joel says.

Mickey scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, usually when I eat, it could.”

“How long were you in prison?” Birdy asks curiously.

“This time was a little over two years,” Mickey says carelessly. “Before that, a year and a half. And I was in juvie a few times.”

“What did you go to prison for?” Joel asks, all worried like it just now occurred to him to ask.

“Drugs,” Mickey lies easily. All Old McDonald here really wants to know is if Mickey’s going to murder him and his wife, and nothing about Mickey’s conviction will tell him that. Mickey’s going to be fucked if the guy runs a background check, but he doesn’t think one guy on a farm can.

“Selling or doing them?” Birdy asks. She sounds more curious than worried. Nosy old bat.

“Selling,” Mickey says. “Never did drugs anywhere cops could see. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

Birdy starts a little and Joel raises an eyebrow at Mickey. But neither of them say anything. “You did drugs?” Birdy presses.

Mickey scoffs. “Lady, where I’m from, _everyone _does drugs. Drugs or just drinks themselves to death. Only way to forget how shitty everything is for a while.”

“Is that why you left? You’re clean now and didn’t want temptation?” Birdy’s all wide-eyed and earnest, like Mickey’s some fucking redemption story someone could make a dumb movie out of for rich people to cry over. Mickey laughs out loud.

“I left ‘cause I got out and Ian wanted to move. Not a bad thing to put some space between us and my dad, anyway. Not a bad idea to go somewhere no one’s gonna think to look.” Mickey shrugs and licks fruit salad off his spoon. “I was never a fucking crackhead or anything. Just weed with Ian and my sister and my brothers. Pills sometimes. Coke when I needed a boost on a job or something.”

“Ian’s your…” Birdy shoots a look at Joel.

“Boyfriend,” Mickey supplies warningly. “You got something to say?”

“You sure are prickly about that,” Joel says mildly.

“Got reason to,” Mickey shoots back. “If it’s gonna be a problem, rather find out sooner than later.”

“It’s not a problem,” Birdy says. “We just don’t know anyone…that way.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Sure you don’t. Place like this, can’t be something guys go around talking about.”

“So how many brothers and sisters do you have?” Birdy wades in after a few seconds of awkward silence and Mickey chewing. He’d rather they eat without talking, but apparently they have to sit here and make small talk. Mickey fucking hates small talk. He doesn’t really like talking at all, unless it’s with Ian. Sometimes Mandy.

“Four brothers, one sister,” Mickey says. “Oh, wait, I got a half…” He shrugs. “Don’t know if I should say brother or sister. Thought she was a sister but turned out my dad’s baby mama just really wanted a girl and didn’t care what the kid was born like. Probably more brothers and sisters I don’t know about, too. My dad fucks around a lot.”

They stop asking him questions after that and just let him eat in peace. Halle-fucking-lujah.

After lunch, they have to go around moving _more_ irrigation pipes, stack hay bales, and check on the hay that’s growing in a field. Mickey doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to be checking _for_. He didn’t even know which growing stuff was hay. Joel cracked up laughing when Mickey walked over to the corn.

“I’ve never seen any fucking corn or hay growing,” Mickey snapped, annoyed.

Now Joel’s surveying the hay and nodding every once in a while. “Ready to cut soon. You know how to drive tractor?”

Mickey gives him a look and Joel laughs. Mickey realizes Joel’s fucking with him. He knows there’s no way Mickey knows how to drive a tractor. Mickey huffs. “I can drive a truck,” he offers. “And a big van.”

Joel shrugs. “Yeah, it’s a bit like that. Just a hell of a lot bigger and you have to stop when you’ve got a full bale and dump it.” Joel waves a hand. “We got two weeks before the first cut. If you’re still here, we’ll worry about it then.”

It’s not like Mickey loves working on a farm. He sure doesn’t love the smell of animal shit all over. But there’s something to be said about being able to breathe. No one crowding around because the yard’s too small for how many of them are crammed out here. No razor wires. If Mickey wanted to take off running, no one up in a guard tower’s going to shoot him down. He’s not going to hear a buzzer in ten minutes sending back into a box that locks from the outside.

He tips his head back and closes his eyes for a second, just letting the sun and the slight breeze move on his face.

“All good?” Joel asks, making Mickey jump.

“I’m fine,” Mickey says. He feels kind of stupid, getting all sentimental like that. He wasn’t even locked up for very long, relatively speaking. And it’s not like he wasn’t used to it. He should be over that claustrophobic feeling by now.

Joel doesn’t say anything. He raises his eyebrows in a way that kind of pisses Mickey off, but at least he keeps his mouth shut. Mickey doesn’t say anything else, either. He avoids Joel’s eye and gets back to work.

By the time Ian pulls up to get him, Mickey’s sweaty, smelly, sunburnt, and he has blisters on his hands and feet. He spent the last hour digging a trench for an underground sprinkler system. Joel fucked off to the house and left Mickey to do it himself.

Ian’s all amused by the sight of Mickey doing manual labor. Mickey flips him off just before Birdy comes out with lemonade. Mickey feels like he’s in a fucking TV show.

“Does your…Ian want some?” She offers awkwardly. Mickey waves Ian over. Now he won’t have to talk; Ian will handle all the small talk.

“Hi,” Ian says. “I’m Ian.”

“Birdy,” she says. “You’re working over on Ed’s site, is that right?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there for a few weeks now,” Ian says. “Ed’s the one who told us you might have a spot for Mickey. I guess everyone knows everyone around here, huh?”

“Yep, pretty much,” Birdy says. “But Ed’s also my cousin, so he knows us more than just someone else in town. We’ve got a lot of family around here. Most of us do.”

“Oh, wow,” Ian says. “All our family is back in Chicago. Except Mickey’s sister; she moved away a few years ago, and my big sister just moved to California last year.”

They talk about Mandy and Fiona for a while and then move on to the rest of Ian’s family. Mickey drinks his lemonade and checks out. Why anyone would be interested in hearing about a complete stranger is beyond him.

“You brought your little brother?” He snaps back into the conversation when he hears Birdy ask that.

“Yeah, he’s thirteen. With all the babies at home, it was best for everyone if we brought Liam.”

“Your parents…?” Birdy asks hesitantly.

“My dad’s…” Ian tips his head and huffs. “Not around much. And my mom died a few years ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Birdy murmurs. Ian doesn’t like talking about Monica, and this lady’s a fucking stranger. Mickey’s putting an end to this little chat before Ian gets too into his head and his bad memories.

“Alright, we gotta go,” he says bluntly. Ian and Birdy both turn to stare at him and he shrugs. “You want Liam to burn the house down making food?”

“He’s thirteen,” Ian points out doubtfully, but he can tell Mickey’s ready to go. He hands Birdy back her cup. “Thanks so much,” he says. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other around. Mick and I only have one car, so I’ll probably be dropping him off and picking him up most days.”

“Okay, well, you boys have a good night,” Birdy says. She watches them, a little dubiously like she thinks they’re going to start fucking right there or something. Mickey would flip her off if he didn’t have to come back tomorrow.

“How was it?” Ian asks. “She seemed nice.”

“Fucking sucked,” Mickey says. “I’m covered in cow shit and I had to dig holes for an hour. And they kept fucking asking me all these questions. Why they wanna know shit about my family?”

Ian laughs. “Mickey, it’s called polite conversation.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want it,” Mickey says.

“So are you coming back tomorrow?” Ian asks. He brushes a hand over Mickey’s and tuts at the blister. “I’ll take care of those when we get home.”

Mickey blows out a breath. “Yeah, guess I gotta,” he sighs. “Doubt anyone else’s gonna hire me.”

Ian glances over at him for a second before turning back to the road. “You don’t have to,” he says. “I don’t want you to hate it.”

Mickey shrugs. “Least I get to be outside. And I’m probably not gonna chop anything off like I would in some factory. Pretty much all I’m qualified for if we’re cutting out illegal shit.”

“And we are,” Ian says firmly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey says. “Heard you the first forty times.” He snorts and leans over to finally kiss Ian hello. “That lady thought we were gonna fuck in her flower bed.”

Ian laughs again. “I thought about smacking your ass just to freak her out, but I wanted to check and see if you’re keeping the job.”

Mickey laughs and puts his hand on Ian’s sweaty neck. He likes finding open skin to touch. Not in a weird way or anything. He just likes feeling Ian without anything in his way. “If I change my mind, you’re the first to know. We’ll give her a show.”

“Your white ass will probably blind her,” Ian says, all fake mournfully.

Mickey cracks up. “Look who’s talking.”

“I’m so tan right now,” Ian protests. He holds out an arm. “Compare. I’m darker than you right now.”

“Just ‘cause you’re covered in freckles,” Mickey points out. “And your _ass_ hasn’t been in the sun. Has it?” He nudges Ian and mean mugs for a second just to make Ian laugh again.

“I promise if I’m going to fuck in the sun, it will only be with you,” Ian says solemnly.

“Good,” Mickey says with a snort. He plays it off like the joke it is, but at the same time, it’s a promise that makes him smile all the way home.

“You gonna get to work back there anytime soon?” Mickey snaps, annoyed. Ian said he was going to eat Mickey’s ass, but for the past two minutes he’s just been sitting back there doing who knows what.

“This is new,” Ian says, voice soft. He runs his finger over a scar at the top of Mickey’s ass. Mickey jumps a little. “How’d you get a new scar in eight months since I left? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Mickey sighs. “Can we talk about this later?” Being facedown and ass-up is one of his favorite positions, but only when he gets something out of it. It’s not exactly conducive to conversation.

Ian hesitates for a second like he’s going to press it, but then he just says, “Okay” and finally gets down to business. In all honesty, Mickey kind of forgets about the scar for a while. But after they’re both spent and sharing a cigarette, Ian fixes him with that stubborn look that means Mickey’s not getting out of this conversation.

“Talk,” Ian commands.

Mickey takes a long drag. “Not much to say. You know that dude with the weird eye in C block?”

“Pfizer,” Ian supplies, because he’d tried to be all neighborly and learn everyone’s names for a while. He takes the cigarette back from Mickey and gestures at him to continue.

Mickey snorts. “He had a shiv but it wasn’t all that sharp. It was his toothbrush. Or, you know, someone’s toothbrush.” He shrugs. “Don’t know if it was supposed to be a hit or he was just pissed I got the last OJ at breakfast. He didn’t say anything. Just came over and sliced at me. Wasn’t even bad enough to go to medical, but it left a scar ‘cause I scar easy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ian asks. His forehead’s all wrinkled up like he thinks Mickey had some nefarious motive.

“Ian, it wasn’t that big of a deal,” Mickey says honestly. “Didn’t have to get stitches or anything. Didn’t want you freaking out about nothing. Pfizer got solitary for a few days and when he came back, we didn’t have any other problems.”

“When was it?” Ian demands. “I missed visiting you that time in March because of the snow.”

“Nah, it was like two weeks after you left,” Mickey says. “Before they let you come at all.”

Ian stubs out the cigarette before it burns his fingers. He sighs and nestles in close to Mickey. “I don’t like finding new scars I don’t know about,” he says softly. “I’m s’posed to know every inch of your body.”

“You do,” Mickey promises.

“Can’t believe it took me two weeks to notice it.” That’s probably what’s really bugging him. Ian’s convinced his meds make his brain work slower or something. They probably do, but Mickey’s not so sure that’s a bad thing. He’s seen Ian manic enough to know that fast-brain shit is scary.

“Not like anyone else ever would,” Mickey points out.

“I just…” Ian blows out a breath. “I hate that I wasn’t there. I hate that I left you.”

Mickey looks over, surprised. “You had to leave me. Your family needed you.”

“But _you’re_ my family,” Ian says, squeezing Mickey’s arm. “And you needed me, too.”

Mickey shakes his head, throat feeling a little tight. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to him. If anyone ever had, it would’ve been Ian. “Look, I ain’t gonna pretend I didn’t miss you. But I did not want you there a second longer than you had to be. You hear me? I knew what I was getting into when I handed myself over. I knew they’d let you out first and I’d have to deal by myself for a while. That was fine with me when I knew you were waiting.”

Ian sighs. “I just don’t like thinking you kept a secret from me.”

Mickey scoffs. Ian’s so fucking dramatic. “It wasn’t a _secret_,” he explains, probably more scornfully than he should with Ian being all emotional right now. “I just didn’t really think about it by the time they let you come back. You know, in all the times someone’s tried to kill me or beat the shit out of me, it doesn’t really stand out.” Mickey nudges Ian. “Anyway, you know you were the only one who knew my biggest fucking secret for a really long time, right?

Ian laughs a little and presses closer to Mickey. “Well, you got a point there.”

“Yeah, I do,” Mickey says. He reaches down and grabs at Ian. “Looks like you still got a point here.”

Ian laughs, kind of breathless. “Yeah, whatcha gonna do about it?”

“I got some ideas,” Mickey says, and then he shuts up for a little bit.

He can’t sleep, though. Everyone talks about the countryside being so quiet, but Mickey thinks they’re all idiots. It’s fucking loud out here. Sure, it’s not sirens and neighbors fighting and gunshots or anything, but it’s still loud. The wind blows a lot, and it rustles leaves and grass around. There’s all kind of birds outside and it turns out even though their closest neighbor is a quarter mile away, they can still hear the fucking rooster crowing in the morning. And there are so many weird animal noises; some kind of weird yelping howl that Mickey thought was something dying but Ian found, through YouTube research, is just the regular sound a coyote makes.

Mickey’s prowling around the house, checking all the doors and windows and looking outside to make sure nothing and no _one_ is out there. Well, he knows there are things out there. He’s more concerned with the kinds of things that can hold guns and knives and kill them in their sleep.

Mickey shakes his head at himself. The cartel isn’t going to come kill him in the middle of the night. They’ll want him to know he’s been caught. They’ll play with him first. That shouldn’t be a comforting thought, but somehow it is.

He climbs back into bed and stares at the shadows on the ceiling. He rolls over and looks at Ian for a while. He has no idea how Ian can still sleep so deeply and so soundly after all the shit he’s been through. Though some of that comes from his meds, Mickey knows. Mickey had to go to the shrink inside once, after he got pulled out of a fight. The guy suggested Mickey get on some antianxiety meds. Mickey said a crass no thanks and flipped him the bird. He figures they can’t both rely on medicine when they’re never sure they’ll have insurance or extra cash.

Ian shifts around in his sleep and mumbles a little, just some nonsense without actual words. Mickey brushes a little piece of hair off Ian’s forehead and Ian presses into the touch. Mickey thinks this should be the happiest he’s ever been. They’re back where he wanted them, together and making it work every day. But for some reason, Mickey still can’t rest easy. He shoves the thought away and forces himself to lie down and close his eyes. He has to get up early these days.

“Think you’re ready to start milking,” Joel says while Mickey’s still blinking hard to stay awake.

“What?” Mickey asks. He’s not very smart at the best of times, but 5:30 am doesn’t help.

“The milk cows,” Joel clarifies. “Come on. Let’s go meet the girls.”

Mickey huffs and follows him to a smaller barn. There are about ten cows in there. “You milk ‘em ten at a time?” Mickey asks. “This is gonna take forever. I never noticed you doing that before.”

“No, these are our only milking cows left,” Joel says. “These past two weeks, Birdy’s been doing the milking while I stayed with you. But her arthritis is getting bad so milking hurts her and she gets real tired, especially in the mornings. Decided it’s time I showed you how.”

Mickey wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. Joel’s been watching him like a hawk for the past two weeks, like he thinks Mickey’s going to steal something or kill someone. Mickey meant it when he said he has no idea what he’d steal out here. The tractor, _maybe_, but from what he’s learned from cutting the hay, it only goes like five miles per hour. Not the best getaway car he could pick.

Joel leads Mickey over to one of the stalls and shows him how to get situated. “They’re ready for you to milk ‘em,” he says while the cow moos a whole fuckton. He starts yanking at the thing’s teat and Mickey grimaces.

“Squeezing tits has never really been my thing,” he complains.

Joel laughs. “Maybe it’ll turn you back.”

He’s making a joke, but Mickey doesn’t think it’s very funny. He spent a long fucking time thinking he could do that. His dad sure as hell tried. And besides, turning him _back_ makes it sound like he started out straight and Ian’s magic dick is the thing that turned him gay or something. Mickey used to pretend that was true, but he always knew it wasn’t. He knew what he wanted a long time before Ian came around.

“Yeah, well, if human tits couldn’t do it, don’t think a cow will,” Mickey says.

Joel looks up. “That mean you tried?”

Mickey scoffs. “Uh, yeah. My dad—” Mickey shrugs. “How long’s this take?”

Joel goes with the change of subject. He shows Mickey how to do it and laughs again when Mickey asks if he gets to wear gloves. Then he gets Mickey situated with a stool and a bucket in a stall across from the one he’s in.

“We used to use the machines, when we had more cows to milk,” Joel says. “But with just ten, it’s not worth it.”

After Mickey starts milking the thing, he thinks it seems pretty fucking worth it. It takes forever and it’s disgusting. It’s all hot. The milk is _steaming_ in the bucket. Mickey has never, in his entire life, considered where milk comes from. He buys it at the store and drinks it cold. After this, he may never drink milk again.

The cow smells like…a cow, probably. Smells like shit and stinky animal or something. Joel gets through three cows before Mickey has a real rhythm with the one he’s on. Then he calls over, “Hey, how do I know when I’m done?”

And then the cow fucking kicks back with its front leg and gets him on the side, right below the ribs. He falls back against the back of the stall. Shit. That must be how. Joel comes running over. “You alright?”

Mickey would shrug, but he knows better. It hurts like a bitch and knocked the wind out of him, but it’s not as bad as getting hit with a bat or a knife or anything. He knows how to handle getting the wind knocked out of him like that. He tells his brain to chill the fuck out and takes slow, small breaths until he can take a long one instead of gasping for air like he wants to. “Had worse,” he wheezes out.

Joel’s looking at him like he’s some kind of freak. “Let’s go up to the house, get you taken care of.”

“It’s not that bad,” Mickey says, voice coming back a little stronger now.

“Your ribs could be broken,” Joel protests. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Mickey shakes his head. “They’re not broken. I’d know.” He’s broken ribs plenty of times. He’s going to be bruised as shit for a while, but nothing’s broken.

Joel just looks at him for a second. “Well, we should at least wash it out if the skin’s broken,” he points out. “Don’t want to get infected.”

Mickey accepts that. Cow shit in his bloodstream can’t be good. They go inside and Joel waits for him to raise his shirt. Mickey hesitates for a second, because he’s seen how normal people react to this kind of reveal. Then he tells himself to suck it up. Joel pauses for a second, taking in the scars crisscrossing Mickey’s skin. He raises his eyebrows.

“Fall down a lot as a kid?” He asks mildly.

“Something like that,” Mickey says flatly, inviting no more discussion. Joel takes the hint and goes to get ice while Mickey washes off his ribs, wincing and clenching his teeth. He wasn’t lying when he said he’s had worse. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, though. The skin’s not actually broken, but it’s already obvious he got hit hard.

He goes out to the kitchen to get the ice from Joel. “You want to head home?” Joel asks.

Mickey blinks. “You want me gone?”

“You got kicked,” Joel says slowly.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Not like I fucking died or anything.”

“Alright,” Joel says. Mickey’s kind of surprised he doesn’t push it, but he’s probably been kicked more than once, too. “I’ll finish the milking. You can go cut some more hay.”

Mickey knows Joel’s just letting him take it easy—he was supposed to be digging more trenches for the irrigation system today—but he doesn’t argue. If the dude’s going to let him off the hook about it, fine. He sits down with the ice against his ribs and closes his eyes for a minute. Then he puts the ice pack back in the freezer and goes outside. He’s no pussy, and he’s not letting anyone think he is.

Mickey drives home. Ian’s been carpooling, since Mickey starts and finishes work before Ian does. When he gets inside, there’s stuff for dinner sitting out; it was Liam’s first day of school, and Ian’s determined to do some big dinner for him. Mickey doesn’t know if it’s a holdover from Fiona or if Ian just feels guilty for making Liam start at another new school.

It crosses Mickey’s mind that he could start making that food. That would make Ian happy. But Mickey got kicked by a fucking cow today, and then he cut a field of hay and even went back and did the evening milking. He only milked two cows and he was so tense the whole time it’s probably adding to how sore he is. Mickey pops a few Advil before he takes a shower, and then he crawls into bed and takes a fucking nap.

He wakes up to the screen on the front door banging shut and Ian and Liam’s voices. The bus must’ve dropped Liam off right as Ian was getting home. Liam sounds okay, so school must not have been too bad. Mickey puffs out a short breath and scrubs his hands over his face. He stiffly gets out of the bed and finds Ian and Liam in the kitchen. Liam’s at the table recounting his day and Ian’s cooking.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian says happily. The sunburnt bridge of his nose is peeling and he has so many freckles it makes Mickey think of that floppy-haired kid he fell for. Mickey can’t help but smile. He leans in and kisses Ian and then eases himself down at the table across from Liam.

“You the only black kid?”

“Yeah, at least in my class,” Liam confirms. “But there’s some Asian twins who let me sit with them at lunch.”

That makes Mickey laugh a little. He never had to worry about who to sit with at lunch. He usually left at lunch anyway, but on the off-chance he was hanging around the school cafeteria, he sat with his brothers. No one ever bothered them.

“What about you?” Mickey asks Ian. “Good day?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Ian says. “Nobody died.”

“Has somebody died a different day?” Liam checks.

“No,” Ian says. “I really thought that would be more likely in construction.”

“You didn’t get enough people dying when you were an EMT?” Mickey asks.

“Hey, no one died on my watch,” Ian says defensively. After a pause, he amends, “Well, okay, some people did. But it was never my fault. How was the farm?”

“Milked cows today,” Mickey reveals.

Ian bursts out with a laugh so loud a bird outside squawks in surprise. Liam and Mickey both stare at him and he says, “Sorry. Just—the mental image of you milking a cow.” He cracks up again, and Liam joins in.

“Told Joel squeezing tits wasn’t my idea of a good time,” Mickey says, making them both laugh harder. “Cow must’ve agreed, because it fucking kicked me in the ribs.”

Ian stops laughing. “What?”

“Yeah, kicked me.”

Ian abandons whatever he’s stirring on the stove and comes closer. “Where?” He asks, hands hovering carefully. Mickey pulls up his shirt and Ian gasps. “Fuck, Mick,” he groans. “That looks bad.”

“Knocked the wind outta me, but nothing’s broken,” Mickey says. Liam’s eyes are all wide and Mickey doesn’t know if it’s about the bruise or all the other scars littering his stomach and side. Ian doesn’t bat an eye at those, since he already knows them all. “Figured I better tell you right away or you’d cry about not knowing a new scar,” Mickey adds, kind of snippily.

Ian scoffs and starts gingerly touching Mickey’s ribs. Mickey hisses a little but Ian nods. “They don’t feel broken.”

“Told you. You think I don’t know what a broken rib feels like?” Mickey demands.

“I know you know what a broken rib feels like,” Ian placates him. “But I also know you lie sometimes so I have to check for myself.”

“Why’d the cow kick you?” Liam asks. “I thought cows liked being milked.”

“I don’t know if they like it,” Mickey says. “They don’t like _not_ being milked; I know that. Joel said it hurts pretty bad if you don’t milk them.”

“Yeah, that’s how it is for women, too,” Ian says. “Blocks up the ducts and stuff and their breasts get all tender.”

Liam snickers. “Breasts.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so Carl.”

“Hey,” Liam says.

Ian leans down and presses a little kiss to Mickey’s bruised skin. “There,” he says softly. “All better.”

Mickey has to swallow before he can talk. No one’s ever kissed his scraped knees or knuckles or bruises. Even when his mom was around, she wasn’t doing any of that. “That how you made sure no one died when you were an EMT?”

Ian laughs, his big, warm hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “Nah,” he says easily. “Just for my favorite patients.”

Mickey has to duck his head a little at that. He still likes hearing Ian call him his favorite anything. It’s stupid, but it still sends a little shock down his spine when Ian says it.

Ian winks at him and goes back to cooking. Mickey shakes his head a little, but he’s still smiling. Times like this, he remembers this really _is _the happiest he’s ever been, not just supposed to be.

“Sure you’re good to work?” Joel asks worriedly. “I been kicked more times than I count. Not what I’d call fun.”

Mickey shrugs, ignoring the dull ache moving his side causes. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay,” Joel points out. Mickey holds back a scoff. That sounds like some touchy-feely bullshit from a guy who hasn’t been knocked around for the vast majority of his life, but okay.

“Ian looked at it and said it’s fine,” Mickey says. Actually, Ian did _not_ want Mickey to come to work today, but Mickey shut him down. He’s not going to let anyone say he doesn’t keep his word. He said he’d come to work so he did. And Ian doesn’t get to complain about that considering how often he hides feeling shitty from everyone.

“He a doctor?” Joel asks skeptically.

“EMT.” Mickey probably sounds defensive about it, but that’s because he _feels_ defensive about it. This guy doesn’t even know Ian and he’s acting like there’s no way in hell Ian knows what he’s talking about. Mickey doesn’t like that.

“Really?” Joel asks, surprised enough to make Mickey even more annoyed. “He work on the ambulance here?”

“Nah, he’s—” Mickey stops. He doesn’t know how much of Ian’s business he should go blabbing about. On the other hand, Ian’s boss already knows he’s on parole, and in a town this small, it’ll probably get out. And Birdy said she was Ian’s boss’s cousin, so maybe they already know. “He’s on parole,” Mickey says. “Hospitals and ambulances or whatever don’t really want him. Even though it didn’t even have anything to do with the EMT shit and he only did it ‘cause he was…” He shrugs.

Telling people Ian’s on parole is one thing, but Mickey’s not going to go around blabbing about the bipolar thing. Ian’s really fucking sensitive about it, and it’s none of anyone’s business. Ian wanted to move here for a fresh start where no one knows them. He doesn’t need to get labeled the crazy guy before anyone even gets to know him.

Joel looks a bit taken aback. “You meet him in prison?”

“We grew up in the same neighborhood,” Mickey says. “Always knew each other’s families. Got together when we were teenagers.”

“Got into trouble together,” Joel guesses.

Mickey huffs. “Well, yeah, but we didn’t get locked up together if that’s what you’re thinking. I mean, we were in the same cell. But that’s ‘cause I knew he’d need me so I made sure we would be.”

“Wait a second.” Joel stops cutting open hay bales to look at Mickey. “You went to prison _for _him?”

Mickey shrugs. “Kinda, I guess.” Both times, actually.

“Well, son, I have to say, that’s dumb as shit.”

It startles a little laugh out of Mickey. “No, it’s not,” he protests. “He didn’t know what it was going to be like. I already did.”

Joel shakes his head and goes back to cutting the wire. “You young people and your romance.”

Mickey snorts. “Romance. Not a lot of that in the joint.”

“I can imagine,” Joel says. “You doing alright? What’s it been, a month?”

“Yeah, almost,” Mickey says. “I’m fine.”

Joel tips his head a little. “Way I hear it, adjusting out of prison can be tough.”

“Not my first time,” Mickey says breezily. He doesn’t want to talk about this shit. What, he’s supposed to talk about how he jerks awake in the middle of the night and checks over his shoulder to make sure no one’s about to jump him? He’s supposed to cry about how sometimes a crowded room feels too small? If he’s going to talk to someone about it, it’ll be Ian. Not some old dude who gave him a job.

Joel just kind of looks at him for a second. Mickey looks away. He’s never been good at looking people in the eye. Except Ian, but even that took literal years.

“Hmm,” is all Joel finally says. But he doesn’t say anything else, so whatever. Mickey goes back to tossing hay bales onto the truck. It hurts like fuck, and he has to pull them apart more than he usually does, but Joel doesn’t say anything.

By the time they go in for lunch, Mickey’s sweating and biting his tongue to keep from panting. His whole side is on fire and his ribs are throbbing so hard he can feel his pulse in them. Mickey’s broken ribs plenty of times before, and his ribs aren’t even broken this time, but he’s never gone out and done manual labor like this after doing it.

Birdy takes one look at him and shoots a death glare at Joel. “Not in hell,” she hisses. “Go sit down right now,” she orders Mickey. “I’m bringing you ice and pain pills and then Joel is driving you home the second I feed you.”

“No,” Mickey protests. “I can drive my fucking self home.” He’ll go home, fine, but no one needs to take him there.

“Not on pain pills!” She says, all scandalized, and Mickey can’t help but laugh at her. Then he groans because that hurts.

“Lady, I’ve probably driven high more than I’ve ever driven sober,” he tells her. He probably shouldn’t be saying shit like that to these weirdo hick people who probably go to church and don’t know anyone who even smokes weed, but he’s never been good at holding back that kind of stuff and especially not when he’s in pain.

“Not when I got family and friends on the road,” she says firmly. She doesn’t give him a chance to counter before she turns around and goes down the hall. Joel gets Mickey some ice and Mickey lets himself groan, just once, while no one else is around. Then Birdy’s coming back with a pill bottle.

“If I give you this, will it trigger some kind of relapse?” She asks all serious. Mickey laughs again.

“I’m not a fucking drug addict,” he says. “More likely to be an alcoholic but I can’t even drink right now ‘cause Ian’s on parole.”

She looks skeptical, but she shakes an Oxy out into his hand and gets him a glass of water. He’s already dry-swallowed it by the time she gets back, but he takes a drink of water to avoid the disapproving look she’s got going on. He knows he’s trash. He doesn’t need some old lady judging him about it.

She makes him eat a sandwich even though his stomach is rolling from the pain and then Joel drives Mickey home in Mickey’s car. Birdy follows them to drive Joel home after and Mickey tries not to look too self-conscious about them seeing the place.

“Nice place,” Joel comments.

Mickey doesn’t answer. He can’t tell if Joel’s giving him shit or trying to be nice, and Mickey doesn’t really know how to navigate that kind of social decorum in the best of times. They get out of the car and Joel heads over to Birdy. Mickey feels kind of awkward, but he calls, “Uh, thanks,” over his shoulder because that seems like the kind of thing he’s supposed to say. Birdy rolls down her window and sticks her head out.

“You need more pain stuff, you let me know,” she says. “I’ll bring ‘em to you, but only one at a time.”

Mickey just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure.” He got through getting shot in the ass without anything but fistfuls from the random pill collection at the Milkovich house, so he’s pretty sure he’ll survive some bruises.

_Left work early_, he tells Ian. _Can come get you today if you want._

_Your ribs?_ Ian asks. Then he texts again. _I told you not to go. Probably fucked them up worse._ Before Mickey can answer, he sends _another_ message. _I’ll get a ride. Just rest._

Mickey doesn’t bother answering. It doesn’t seem like Ian was waiting for a response anyway. He takes a shower and lies down. One Oxy wasn’t enough to get him high after the tolerance he’s built up, but it’s making everything nice and blurry around the edges. His side certainly feels better. He dozes a little, but he jerks painfully awake when he hears tires on the gravel outside.

He’s only been home for an hour and a half. It can’t be Ian or Liam. Mickey peeks through the blinds and wrinkles his brow when he sees Ian getting out of some dude’s truck. Mickey comes out to the porch just as Ian walks up.

“What are you doing here?” Mickey asks.

“Pretended I felt sick,” Ian says, stepping up and putting his arms around Mickey’s waist.

“Why?” Mickey asks even as he’s melting into Ian’s touch.

“’Cause you’re here,” Ian says easily. It reminds Mickey of that day in the Alibi and it makes his chest hurt a little. A little more, anyway. Even with the Oxy, his ribs don’t feel great.

“Don’t trust me to be here all alone, huh?” Mickey asks, voice kind of rough.

Ian nuzzles his nose into Mickey’s hair. “If I could have you here all to myself, why would I pass that up?”

Mickey laughs. “Fuck yeah,” he says, tugging at Ian’s hand to lead him down the hallway.

“I’m not going to fuck you, though,” Ian says sternly. “Not when your ribs are all messed up.”

Mickey stops and gives Ian a confused look. “So what are we going to do?”

“Take a nap,” Ian says with a shrug.

“You just want to take a nap?” Mickey asks. He keeps his voice incredulous, but for some reason his heart is speeding up in a weird way. The thought of Ian begging off work just to come home and cuddle up with Mickey is making him sweat. It’s a good way, but it feels weird. It makes him feel like he used to when he was running away from Ian all the time, like all he wants is what Ian’s offering but he knows it’s going to burn him.

“You don’t want to?” Ian asks.

“Just weird that you skipped work for it.”

Ian shrugs again. “You get up so early now, I hardly get to sleep next to you. I miss it.”

Mickey doesn’t know why he feels like he’s having a panic attack. Who the fuck freaks out over the dude they’re in love with wanting to be close to them? Some kind of fucking idiot, that’s who. It’s a good thing. Mickey shoves that weird little voice screaming in the back of his head to the very back and buries it while Ian tugs him down the hall to their bedroom.

“You okay?” Ian checks after they lie down. “You’re all sweaty. Tell me you didn’t get in bed with cow shit on you.”

“I showered,” Mickey says defensively.

Ian frowns. “Hurts that bad?”

“Kinda,” Mickey lies. It’s easier than explaining his freak out. He doesn’t even understand it, so there’s no way he could tell Ian about it. Ian wraps an arm carefully around Mickey’s waist and runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair.

“We missed planting for this year,” he says. “But what should we grow in our garden next year?”

“God, are we really doing that?” Mickey complains.

“Yes,” Ian says right away. “Gardening is apparently good therapy.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Gardening is supposed to help bipolar?”

Ian snorts. “I mean, could it really hurt?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Could cut yourself on like…a garden thing. A shovel.”

Ian laugh a little. “Like I don’t know how to use a shovel?”

“Don’t some plants have thorns on ‘em?” Mickey points out.

“We can wear gloves,” Ian says. “Now shut up and tell me what you want to grow.”

“Weed,” Mickey says. It makes Ian laugh again.

“Shut up, I knew you were going to say that.”

“Yeah, so why’d you ask?”

“We’re not growing weed,” Ian says sternly. “We don’t have a fence or anything. Anyone driving by would see it.”

“I’m getting real good at building fences,” Mickey says. “I could build one.”

“Not while Liam’s around,” Ian says. “Maybe it’s stupid, but…I really want him to stay out of trouble, you know? As much as I can. I don’t want…” He breaks off and makes a face. “Don’t want him to end up like me.”

That makes Mickey’s throat all tight. He knows the feeling. When Svetlana used to bring the kid around, it made Mickey feel kind of sick. It wasn’t like he was the world’s greatest dad or anything—he doesn’t even know where his kid _is_ right now—but thinking about the little dude growing up and ending up in the joint always made Mickey want to puke. But Svetlana got him far away from Mickey, so he’s probably a lot safer now.

“I think you turned out okay,” Mickey promises softly. “I mean, shit, compared to me you’re a totally upstanding citizen.”

Ian huffs. “I’m on parole for felony destruction of property. They could’ve charged me for domestic terrorism if they really wanted to.”

“I think it’s kinda hot,” Mickey says.

“Okay, well, you also think Segal is hotter than Van Damme.”

“Jesus, not this again,” Mickey grouses, even though he can’t stop grinning.

“Would you leave me for Segal?” Ian asks, all fake serious. Mickey gets that feeling again, like he needs to make an excuse and get the fuck out of here. It doesn’t make _sense_. This is what he’s wanted for years. Him and Ian, in their own place, together and mostly stable and happy.

“Considering I couldn’t leave you all the way for my own fucking freedom, I think you’re safe,” Mickey points out, shoving the voice away again.

Ian’s face clouds a little. “Hey,” he starts.

“Nah, don’t,” Mickey begs. He’s being so weird right now, and he doesn’t want this to turn into a thing. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut.

“Don’t what?” Ian asks, surprised.

“Don’t get all serious on me, okay? I feel like shit and I don’t want to deal with some heart-to-heart or something.”

Ian narrows his eyes a little, but then he nods. “Alright, fine. But you can’t get kicked by a cow _every_ day. We’ll have to have a serious discussion at some point.”

Mickey snorts. “You severely underestimate how much those cows hate me plucking their tits.”

Ian cracks up laughing. “You can pluck my tits and I will not kick you.”

Mickey laughs and then groans. “Fuck.”

“Sorry I’m so funny,” Ian deadpans.

“Oh my God,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll cut back on the comedy so you don’t hurt yourself.”

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Mickey says. He leans in and kisses Ian. That little voice is quiet now, and he plans to keep it that way.

They get into a routine. Mickey wouldn’t even notice the time passing, except it starts getting fucking cold in the mornings when he stumbles half-asleep out of the car to work. Birdy invites them over for dinner after Mickey’s been there for about a month.

“Had to make sure you weren’t a murderer first,” she teases. She’s got this big smile on her face like it’s hilarious and Mickey feels like he’s in the fucking Twilight Zone. He isn’t technically a murderer. But there was the whole attempted thing with Sammi, and he’s been an accessory at least twice with his dad, and he brought guys to the cartel leaders more than once and knew they’d be dead by the end of the day.

He swallows that down and says, “I’ll ask Ian. Liam’s in the fucking school play or something, but that usually ends by like five.”

He’s sweating when they pull up to Joel and Birdy’s for dinner a week later. He’s wearing a button-up shirt and he has to pop the top button to breathe for a second while Ian parks.

“Mickey, calm down,” Ian admonishes. “Don’t you eat lunch with them every day?”

“Yeah, but not with you,” Mickey points out.

“Ouch,” Liam remarks from the backseat.

“Shut up,” Mickey barks.

“What’s that mean?” Ian asks, unsure if he should be hurt or not.

“Just…I think I act different when you’re around.”

“You do,” Liam confirms. “You’re calmer.”

Ian smiles about that and Mickey rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know why he’s freaking out so much right now. “They’re like…I mean, not like they’re going to try to throw down with us or anything, but they say shit that makes me think they’re not looking for us to hold hands or anything.”

“Do you guys ever hold hands?” Liam asks curiously. “I’ve never seen it.”

Ian shoots Mickey an amused look. “Were you planning to hold my hand at dinner?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey says, annoyed. “Maybe I would if you guys weren’t so fucking up my ass about it.”

“Okay,” Ian breathes. He rubs his hand up and down Mickey’s thigh. “Hey. I know you don’t like being around other people very much.”

“I don’t,” Mickey grumbles.

“But you don’t even have to talk. I’ll handle all the small talk. You can just eat and glare and touch me under the table.”

“Ew, the fuck?” Liam breaks in.

“It’ll be okay, Mick,” Ian says softly. “We might even have fun.”

Mickey blows out a breath. Ian obviously wants this. He wants to eat dinner with Mickey’s boss like they’re regular people. Mickey rubs his face. “Alright.”

Ian doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He can tell Mickey’s teetering on the brink of absolutely losing his shit. He runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair and nods. “Alright,” he echoes. “Let’s go.”

Mickey can see Birdy and Joel are surprised about Liam being black, but they’re not the kind of assholes who’d ever say anything about it. Liam shakes both their hands and Birdy’s obviously kind of charmed by it. Watching Ian and Liam, Mickey remembers that the Gallaghers grew up a hell of a lot more normally than the Milkoviches. Frank could charm people, when he wanted to, and Mickey doesn’t know Monica but he knows she gathered friends all the time, even if they were just superficial friends there for the drugs. Besides that, the Gallagher kids had Fiona. God knows where she picked up manners. Selective manners, anyway. Probably some temp job where she had to grit her teeth and be polite if she wanted to feed everyone that week.

“You see that fence out there?” Joel asks, pointing out the window. He nods at Mickey. “Your boy here built that.”

“Wow,” Ian says, like a fence is some fucking piece of art. He leans closer to the window. “Looks good, Mick.”

“It’s a fence,” Mickey says, nonplussed. “You build fucking buildings.”

“I work in the office,” Ian counters, rolling his eyes. He’d told his boss he’s bipolar and on meds, and apparently the dude was a little unsure about a crazy guy operating heavy machinery. That upset Ian enough that Mickey was ready to go knock the guy around if Ian hadn’t stopped him.

“Hope you boys are hungry,” Birdy says.

“Always,” Liam promises. She laughs.

“When our boy was your age he was eating everything in sight.”

“You got a kid?” Mickey asks, surprised. Neither of them have mentioned a kid, and he hasn’t seen any pictures. He’s only been in the kitchen and the bathroom, but still.

“One,” Joel confirms. “Doesn’t live around here anymore.” He doesn’t say anything else. Birdy doesn’t jump in, and there’s an awkward silence for a second. Luckily, Ian is physically incapable of handling awkward silences unless he’s forcing them to make some kind of point, so he starts talking about something that happened at work.

Mickey’s bouncing his knee under the table. He can’t help it. His shirt’s all buttoned up again and it feels like it’s choking him. He’d rather go outside and deal with the fucking cows again. Ian grabs Mickey’s knee under the table. He doesn’t stop him from bouncing it; his hand just goes along for the ride. It calms Mickey down. He wonders if he could pinpoint when Ian touching him started calming him down instead of sending him running. Probably around the time he got Ian back from the Army.

“I think next fall you’re gonna be in high demand for cutting hay,” Joel tells Mickey. “Couldn’t believe it was your first time on a tractor.”

Ian laughs a little. “Well, he’s been driving since he was ten.”

Birdy furrows her eyebrows. “How’s that?”

Ian looks caught. “Uh…”

Mickey doesn’t even hesitate. “Used to steal cars,” he says nonchalantly. “Learned to hotwire when I was eight, but I couldn’t reach the pedals until I had a growth spurt when I was ten. Me and my brothers used to joyride together sometimes, though. Somebody would steer and someone else would do the pedals. That’s hard as fuck.”

He gets a weird sort of kick out of freaking them out. He’s pretty sure the prison shrink would chalk it up to his desire to push people away, but he always ignored that guy. Mickey doesn’t push Ian away. Not his fault if everyone else sucks.

“Oh,” Birdy says delicately.

There’s another beat of awkward silence. Ian’s getting that desperate look on his face he gets when anything uncomfortable is happening, but before he can start babbling at high speed, Joel shrugs and says,

“Well, alright. Don’t hotwire my tractor, though.”

Mickey huffs. “If I’m picking a getaway car, I’m not getting stuck with something that only goes ten miles an hour.”

That actually makes Joel laugh. “I guess I can see the logic in that.”

Ian looks all relieved. Mickey isn’t entirely sure how he feels. There’s something weird about Joel just going along with him. He decides not to worry and focuses on eating instead.

The first snow falls in late October, and Mickey has to go around putting blankets on horses who so do not want him around.

“Now, don’t get kicked by one of these guys,” Joel advises. “Hurts a hell of a lot more.”

So far, Mickey hasn’t tried riding the horses. Ian wants him to desperately. “I have a _save a horse, ride a cowboy_ joke just _waiting_,” he says, but Mickey’s not risking his life so Ian can get his rocks off. Not in this case, anyway. Joel says it’ll be better to wait until it warms up to try riding, because the horses are kind of “squirrely”, whatever the hell that means, when it’s cold outside.

As November’s wearing on, Ian comes home with his determined face on. “Let’s talk about Thanksgiving.”

“What about it?” Mickey asks.

“I want to take Liam back to Chicago. Fiona’s flying in.”

Mickey’s stomach drops. “Oh.”

“Mick, I know you’re worried about your dad—”

“I’m not that worried about him anymore,” Mickey admits. “But the cartel’s got guys in Chicago.”

Ian slumps a little. “Okay. I’ll see if they’ll all drive down here.”

Mickey blinks. “You could just go without me.” He didn’t even realize Ian thought he was coming along until this very second.

Ian rolls his eyes. “I’m not spending a holiday without you. Our first Thanksgiving together where we can eat real turkey with actual knives? I’m not passing that up.”

Mickey doesn’t know how to respond. “Ian…”

“Mickey,” Ian shoots back. He leans down and gives Mickey a quick peck. “Don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m notoriously stubborn.”

“No,” Mickey makes himself say. “No, it’s okay. We can go there. You know there’s no way in hell they find enough cars to get here. There’s too fucking many of them.”

Ian sits down next to Mickey and looks at him carefully. “But what about the cartel?”

Mickey shrugs. “Hope they don’t know about you and have your house staked out, I guess.”

“I really have enough traumatizing Thanksgiving memories,” Ian says dryly. “You getting gunned down in the mashed potatoes would ruin the day forever.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, I’d hate to ruin Thanksgiving for you, even though I know you’ve never cared about it before.”

Ian taps at Mickey’s leg under the table. “I’m not kidding, Mickey. If it’s Thanksgiving dinner or you, I pick you.” He leers. “You’ve always been the feast I want anyway.”

Mickey can’t help but laugh. “That was awful.” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “Nah, man, it’ll be okay. We can…you know. Take precautions.” Ian still looks skeptical, so Mickey tugs him in for a kiss. “Maybe they caught all the cartel guys,” Mickey says, even though they both know there’s no way. “Maybe the whole thing fell apart after I got the top guys nabbed. You know I’m just paranoid.”

“If being paranoid keeps you alive,” Ian starts. He gained a real appreciation for Mickey’s paranoia in prison.

“No,” Mickey cuts him off. “I’m not gonna make you live like that.”

“Like what?” Ian asks with that wrinkle between his eyebrows.

Mickey sighs and traces over a chip in the table. “Hiding,” he says quietly. “I know you hate that shit. I do, too. I mean, I wouldn’t mind just us being locked in a room forever, as long as we had enough beer and lube, but…”

Ian wrinkles his nose. “God, I could _smell_ that sentence.”

Mickey laughs again. “Hey, fuck you, that used to be our idea of a good date, huh?”

Ian leans in and kisses Mickey. “Still is,” he promises.

“It’ll be okay,” Mickey says. His heart is pounding so hard he’s afraid Ian will hear it and call him on his bullshit. Ian’s always been good at hearing what he wants to hear, though, so he gets all excited again and starts talking about making stuffing and pumpkin pie and how good it’ll be to see his siblings. Mickey swallows down the ball of fear in his throat and tries to smile and nod along.

“You all going somewhere for Thanksgiving?” Joel asks when Mickey tells him he needs to fuck off for a few days and won’t be able to work.

“Yeah, we’re going back to Chicago to see Ian’s siblings.”

Joel raises his eyebrows. “You don’t sound very excited.”

Mickey shrugs. “People I try to avoid in Chicago.” Before Joel can push on that, Mickey adds, “Plus, Ian’s family hates me.”

“They think you made Ian gay?” Joel asks seriously.

Mickey laughs. “Fuck, if anything it’s the other way around. But not really,” Mickey clarifies quickly, just in case Joel thinks it really works that way. “Nah, they just think I’m trash. A thug. And I beat Ian’s brother up all the time when we were kids, but honestly, if you talked to the guy for five minutes, you’d want to kick his ass, too.”

Joel laughs a little. “Birdy’s got a brother like that,” he says. “I never got into any fights with him, though.”

Mickey scoffs. “I wouldn’t call what me and Lip did fighting. He never got any punches back. He’s still pissed I broke his nose in seventh grade, but he deserved that. He wrote me a paper he guaranteed would get me a C and I got a D-, so I had to teach him a lesson.” Mickey sucks his teeth. “Actually, now that I think about it, that probably wasn’t his fault. Teacher probably took one look at my name and wrote the grade on it without even reading it. All my brothers had that bitch before me.”

Joel’s got his eyebrows raised in a look Mickey now recognizes means Mickey’s revealing himself to be kind of a lowlife and Joel’s maybe regretting hiring him. But he hasn’t told Mickey to get lost yet, so Mickey doesn’t really care what he thinks.

“They think you got Ian into trouble?” Joel asks. “With the whole prison thing?”

“I wasn’t around when Ian did all that,” Mickey says evasively. He still hasn’t revealed the whole fugitive in Mexico thing. He doesn’t care if Joel thinks he’s trash, but that probably _would_ make Joel fire him, and they need the money. “But they do think I’m bad for Ian. I’m not, though. Ian would’ve got into some shit even if we never got together. The Gallaghers ain’t fucking saints. Ian’s dad is always into something. And I take care of Ian. I was there for him when none of their asses were.”

Mickey’s getting defensive now. He can’t really help it. He gets so mad when he thinks about Fiona telling Ian not to tank his life by running off with Mickey. He wants to sneer at her that _she_ was nowhere to be found when Ian was running off with Yevgeny in the backseat. But Mickey hasn’t actually had a conversation with Fiona since he got hauled off by the cops the first time, and Ian’s big Thanksgiving won’t really be the time to bring that up.

“Sometimes family gets that way,” Joel says. “It’s hard to let go and see anyone else loving your family. Especially your kids.”

Mickey snorts. “Ian’s parents never gave a shit about him. His sister, though. She raised ‘em all.”

“Probably makes her more protective,” Joel points out.

“Yeah, well, she should be a little smarter,” Mickey grumbles. “Don’t gotta protect Ian from _me_.”

“I’m sure they’ll come around eventually,” Joel says.

“Whatever,” Mickey counters.

But he resolves himself to be…not pleasant, necessarily, since there’s no way he can make promises on that front, but he’s not going to be a total asshole. Ian tells Mickey to take a nap while they drive, but Mickey’s too keyed up. Chicago gives him a pit in his stomach.

“You know where Mandy is?” He asks Ian curiously.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Not here.”

Mickey nods. He doesn’t ask for more. If Mandy wanted him to know, she’d tell him herself. He’s not offended or anything. For one thing, she’s probably dating some other asshole who beats her around and she doesn’t want Mickey to know. For another, she’s got her own ghosts she’s dodging in Chicago. If she doesn’t want people knowing where she is, Mickey’s not going to hold it against her.

Mickey thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of not seeming like he’s freaking out, but then Ian looks over at him just outside the city and says, “Good, Mick?”

Mickey blinks. “I don’t look good?”

Ian smirks. “You always look good. But I mean—you okay?”

Mickey doesn’t bother trying to deflect this time. He sighs. “I’ll be fine. Just being a pussy.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Worrying about a drug cartel who doesn’t like you isn’t being a pussy.”

“Yeah, well.” Mickey clears his throat. “Worth it. For you.”

Ian doesn’t protest, though Mickey can see he kind of wants to. Instead, Ian just smiles. He looks over at Mickey and sort of laughs, but not like he’s making fun of Mickey. He’s happy. Mickey said something right. Mickey can’t help but laugh a little in return. Ian has such a doofy laugh, and the sound of that laugh’s made Mickey smile for way longer than he ever let himself admit.

Mickey tries not to tense up when they pull up to the Gallagher house. It’s going to be loud and crowded in there. Mickey’s spent the vast majority of his life in loud, crowded places, but it was never what he’d classify as comfortable. At least there’s a low chance of anyone pulling a gun or a shiv on him in there.

He’s pretty sure, anyway.

Fiona flings the door open before they’re even out of the car. Liam, despite all his tough words about being mad at her for leaving without saying goodbye, goes flying out of the car.

“Fi!” He cries.

“Oh, my milk dud!” Fiona says, wrapping him in her arms. Ian turns to Mickey, shielded by the car and everyone paying attention to Liam and Fiona.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Anytime you need a break, you can tell me. We can go to the dugouts or something.”

Mickey grins at the thought of the dugouts. “Oh, we should definitely go there.”

Ian laughs and knocks his shoulder into Mickey’s. “Come on.”

Fiona finally lets go of Liam to grab Ian in a hug. She pulls back and pinches Ian’s cheeks. “You need to fatten up.” Ian rolls his eyes but lets it go without comment.

Then Fiona turns and hugs Mickey. His whole body goes taut. He wasn’t expecting that. He’s never expecting hugs, generally speaking. From Ian, sure, but anyone else? Never. “Hey, Mickey,” she says when she lets him go. “How you doing?”

“Uh, fine,” he says, eyes darting around.

“I hear you’re a cowboy now,” she says, amused.

“No,” Mickey says. “Not really.”

She laughs and steps back so they can all come inside. It gets loud fast. Everyone’s excited to see Liam and Ian and then Debbie comes over and hugs them all—including Mickey, which makes him all edgy again.

“You’re not very good at hugging,” Debbie remarks. Mickey kind of gapes like a fish, because he’s not sure how to respond to that. Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s shoulder.

“Yes, he is,” he protests. “You just caught him off guard. Once he warms up a little, he’s the best at hugs.”

Mickey makes a face. “I don’t want people hugging me.”

Debbie laughs at him and Mickey swallows. He always feels so fucking wrong-footed around the Gallaghers. Ian’s the only one he can stand. Liam’s okay, too, but everyone else makes him tired and annoyed. He reminds himself this is supposed to be for Ian, and he’s trying not to be an asshole, and he’s gotten through worse shit than a few days with Ian’s family.

Mickey takes their stuff upstairs. Seeing the bedroom again makes him shiver a little. He remembers Ian with blank eyes, mad at Mickey for having his med schedule memorized. But he also remembers the first time he ever snuggled up with Ian in that bed—it’s a fucking twin bed, so sharing it makes cuddling pretty much a necessity. Mickey hadn’t slept at all that entire first night, half because he was freaking out and half because he had Ian right there, so close they were touching. For some reason, remembering that first night, how awestruck Mickey had been to have Ian close again, makes him ache. Not entirely in a good way, either, with how everything went down in the end.

“Hey.”

Mickey whirls around, and he starts when he sees Carl. “Holy shit,” he says. “Look at you, fucking Army man.”

Carl shrugs. “Military school,” he says. “Gotta look the part. You sleeping in here?”

“I thought so,” Mickey says, confused. “Where else would we sleep?”

“Well, Lip doesn’t live here anymore,” Carl points out. “Debbie said she could put Franny in with her, and Fiona’s in her old room. You guys can have Lip’s old room and me and Liam will stay in here. My girl was going to come meet everyone, but her psycho parents got all pissed and made her go to their house.”

Mickey shrugs. “Okay.”

“Me and Liam don’t want to see you guys fucking,” Carl says, leering.

“You’d probably want to watch, you goddamn pervert,” Mickey shoots back. He’s laughing a little. He didn’t spend a lot of time with Carl, but he thinks they probably would’ve gotten along alright.

Carl looks sheepish. “I used to be really confused about gay sex. I probably would’ve tried to watch you back in the day to see what it was, except I was too scared of you.”

“You would’ve watched your own brother fucking?” Mickey asks. “That’s fucked up, man.”

“I know,” Carl says with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m a product of my environment.”

Mickey snorts and heads down the hall. “Well, if you want, we can be real loud and you can listen through the wall,” he offers.

Carl cracks up. “No thanks. I watched some porn and saw way more than I ever want to again.”

Mickey doesn’t dignify that with a response. The first thing that popped into his head is that they’re way better than porn, but that’s so weird and cheesy he kind of wants to punch himself in the face. He was kind of hoping to sit and hide for a little while, but Carl follows him down the hall.

“Is it true you work on a farm?” He asks, planting himself in the doorway while Mickey drops their shit on the bed.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Milk cows in the fucking snow. I cut hay and shit like that before it started snowing, too.”

“That’s so weird,” Carl says. “The only thing I can see you doing in nature is killing someone up against a tree.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “That would leave so much fucking evidence behind. Come on. I’m way too good for that.”

“Well, you did go to _prison_,” Carl points out snottily. “I think that means you might not be as good as you think you are.”

“Bitch, I turned myself in,” Mickey says. “I fucking _escaped_ from prison, fuck you very much.”

“Why did you?” Carl asks.

“Escape? Because it’s the fucking worst.”

“No,” Carl says. “Turn yourself in and go back. I mean, you got out. You got away, right? So why go back?”

Mickey rubs his face. “Maybe I was tired of being a fugitive.”

Carl makes a face. “You’ve pretty much been a fugitive your whole life.”

Mickey just shrugs. He doesn’t think it’s a secret he did it for Ian, but fuck if he’s going to say it out loud. Ian never made him admit it; he knew why, and he knew Mickey wasn’t going to say it out loud. He never even tried to make Mickey say it.

“You really did that for Ian, huh?” Carl asks, wonder in his voice. “Even after he broke up with you? That’s so crazy.”

Ian broke up with him twice, kind of, but Mickey’s certainly not going to point that out. His heart’s pounding so hard it hurts. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to _think_ about this. He doesn’t want to remember Ian leaving him at the border in that fucking dress, backing off because Mickey’s always been trash and Ian was finally done. Mickey bites at his thumbnail and tries not to puke on the carpet. Not like he’d be the first one. This carpet’s nasty as shit.

“Hey guys,” Ian says, coming up behind Carl. “Shit, Carl, did you grow again?”

“Know where I definitely grew,” Carl says, grabbing his crotch. Ian huffs and elbows his little brother out of the doorway. He blinks at the sight of Mickey.

“Mickey?” He ventures. He can tell Mickey’s freaking out about something. But Mickey doesn’t want Carl to know. He shakes his head at Ian and gives him a look that means _back off_. That’s probably the way Ian’s most familiar with Mickey’s face. It used to be the only look Mickey ever gave him.

“Who’s like…in charge?” Carl asks, totally oblivious. “I mean, Fiona left. But now she’s back.”

“In charge of what?” Ian asks, trying to sound normal.

“Dinner and stuff.”

“You can make your own dinner,” Ian says.

Carl rolls his eyes. “_Yeah_,” he says. “But you know, like, who’s in charge of if I _should_ make my own dinner or if we’re all eating together?”

“No one’s in charge,” Ian says. “We’re all adults now. Not really Liam, but he’s old enough to make decisions, too. We’ll all decide together.”

Carl huffs. He turns to leave and calls over his shoulder, “When the hell has that ever worked?”

Ian waits until they hear him stomping down the stairs to come closer to Mickey. Mickey closes his eyes when Ian puts his arms around Mickey’s waist. “It’s not anything I’m talking about,” Mickey says immediately, resting his weight against Ian.

“Carl say something stupid?” Ian asks, concerned.

“Nah,” Mickey says. The last thing he needs is Ian asking Carl what they talked about. “Just tired from all the driving.”

Ian snorts. “You didn’t even drive.”

“I got up and did the fucking morning milking before we left,” Mickey points out, way more defensively than he should. Ian’s just teasing. Mickey blows out a breath and pushes away from Ian a little, enough to pull Ian’s arms out as far as they go. “Just weird being back here. Making me kind of jumpy.”

Ian watches him for a second, looking worried. “Okay,” he finally says. “Well, you can take a nap if you want.”

Mickey does want to, if for no other reason than to make the day go by faster, but he’s too anxious about what Ian’s family will say about him behind his back if he’s not around. He shakes his head. “Whatever. Can’t sleep during the day anymore. That fucking farm broke me.”

Ian laughs a little and pulls Mickey back in close again. “I could wear you out first, if you want.”

“With all forty of your siblings around? No thanks.”

“We have the exact same number of siblings,” Ian points out.

“Yours are louder.”

“I was there once when Iggy shot a shotgun _in the house_,” Ian says incredulously.

“Okay but yours _talk_ louder.”

That’s not strictly true, either, since the Milkoviches mostly communicated through screaming at each other, but Ian doesn’t bring that up. He knows Mickey’s been amped up for days about this trip, and not in the good way Ian’s been amped up.

“You want to go downstairs and help make pies for tomorrow?” Ian asks.

“Ugh, Jesus,” Mickey groans. “No.” But he follows Ian out of the room. Ian doesn’t even look back to check. He knows Mickey’s going to come with him. It makes Mickey feel weird, just like when Carl was talking about Mickey getting locked up for Ian. He swallows it down and focuses on not tripping over someone or something on the stairs.

The whole kitchen goes quiet when Ian and Mickey walk in, which is fucking annoying. Ian presses back a little so his shoulder touches Mickey’s. “Hey, guys,” Ian says, the cheer in his voice a little forced. “We’re here to help.”

Mickey sits down at the table. “_He’s_ here to help,” he corrects. “I ain’t doing shit.”

“Wow, I feel like I went back in time,” Fiona cracks.

“I did plenty of shit back then,” Mickey snaps. The kitchen goes awkwardly silent and Ian comes over to Mickey’s chair and puts his hand on Mickey’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters.

“Liam was just telling us he’s trying to wear you down to get a dog,” Lip cuts in. Mickey is so not used to Lip playing peacemaker instead of poking the bear, but he takes the bait to switch topics easily.

“You know you’d expect us to feed the fucking thing,” Mickey grouses at Liam.

Liam shrugs. “I’d do it,” Liam promises. “But it could be _all_ our dog.”

“Who says I want a dog?” Mickey asks.

“Well, you wouldn’t have to feed it,” Liam says.

“You know you’d feed a dog, too, Mick,” Ian points out teasingly. “_I_ know you’d feed a dog.” Mickey rolls his eyes as everyone laughs at him.

“Only ‘cause I wouldn’t want you to come home to a dead dog on the porch,” Mickey says.

“That seems like a nice change of heart,” Fiona says. “Aren’t you the one who would normally kill the dog?” She sounds like she’s joking again, but Mickey’s too on edge to take it that way. He hears what’s under that—Mickey’s whole family is full of lowlife murderers. And he’s just the same as all of them. He’d fucking kill a little kid’s dog. The kitchen falls silent and he shoves back in his chair so fast it tips over.

“That’s it,” Mickey says. “I’m going to get a beer.”

“There’s beer here,” Debbie says, almost meekly. Maybe some of them actually grew a conscience while Mickey was doing eight to life for taking care of their fucking problem. Mickey doesn’t give her a response and blows out the front door. He’s not even wearing his coat, because he’s too much of a drama queen to go back for it.

He’s already embarrassed about freaking out over some jokes. Fiona wasn’t even serious. And even if she was, he knows Ian doesn’t think that way, so who the fuck cares if Fiona does? Mickey made a whole scene over nothing.

He feels a little awkward going into the Alibi. It’s been a long time since he’s been in here. It hasn’t changed much, though there are a few more hipsters sitting around.

“Mickey Milkovich, as I live and breathe!” Kev yells all dramatically when he sees Mickey standing there.

“The fuck’s that mean?”

“It means it’s good to see you!” Kev says. “Come here, man, your first drink’s on me.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says warily. Not like he’s going to look a free drink in the mouth or anything, but he’s still suspicious when someone wants to give him anything for free.

“Don’t get all shifty on me,” Kev snorts. “First drink out of prison’s always free.”

“Alright,” Mickey says. That makes him feel a little better. He grabs a stool and Kev gives him a tequila shot. “Ugh, tequila,” Mickey says just before he downs it. He grimaces and shudders a little. “Fuck, I haven’t had any hard stuff in like two years.”

“You didn’t drink toilet hooch inside?” Tommy asks skeptically.

“No, course I did,” Mickey scoffs. “But it’s not very good.”

“You haven’t had anything since you got out?” Kev asks.

“Nah, Ian’s on parole,” Mickey reminds him. He gets a few raised eyebrows and there’s that wiggly feeling again. Mickey slams his shot glass down on the bar and glares until Kev refills it. Mickey knocks that one back and lets the burn of the tequila match the burn in his chest. “So everyone thinks I’m Ian’s fucking bitch, huh?” He bursts out.

Tommy, never one for decorum or tact, shrugs. “Kinda, yeah. You were off in Canada or something, and then Gallagher cries a little and you come running back.”

“Mexico,” Mickey corrects irritably. “Ian in prison is more than fucking crying, okay? It was a goddamn federal charge, and he needs his fucking routines and his meds and someone to watch his back. Doesn’t matter how tough you are inside if you’re alone. Only takes a few guys to jump you.”

“You’re really worked up about this,” Kev comments.

Mickey taps the rim of his shot glass so Kev will give him another. “I’m not his bitch.”

“Methinks he doth protest,” Tommy mutters.

“Fuck off,” Mickey snarls.

“Hey, hey,” Kev intervenes. “Maybe everyone else is just jealous they don’t have a love like that.”

Mickey doesn’t really know how to respond to that. On the one hand, he’s like 90% sure that’s bullshit. But he does think what he and Ian have is better than anyone else’s dumb relationships. Mickey takes another shot and thinks that over for a second. He’s four shots deep on an empty stomach after basically not drinking for two years, so he’s got a short window of coherent thought here.

“You still got that place upstairs?” Mickey asks Kev. “Might need a place to stay tonight.”

“What do you mean?” Kev asks. “I thought you and Ian were staying at the Gallagher house.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “But I just fucked up and I don’t know. Maybe he’s mad at me. Maybe I shouldn’t have even fucking come with him at all.” He pushes a hand through his hair. He’s well on his way to drunk now. “I _am_ his fucking bitch. Like…like I’m his dog or something. He calls and I come running. He wants me to fight somebody, I fucking fight. Trained me all good and gives me little treats to keep me coming back. But what do I even get for it? He fucks me how I like it and that’s just enough for me?”

“What’s _that_ mean?” Kev asks worriedly.

Before Mickey can come up with an explanation, the door opens and he hears Tommy suck in a quick breath. Mickey twists to face the door and blanches. Terry’s filling up the doorway.

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters. Just what he needs.

“Oh, shit,” Kev blurts. “Should I call the cops? Just like…to get ready?”

Terry’s gaze zeroes in on Mickey right away. Some paranoid part of Mickey wonders if Terry had someone staking out the Gallagher place to put eyes on him. In reality, Mickey should’ve expected to run into Terry at the Alibi. Terry spends like half his life here.

“You fucking kidding me?” Terry says.

Mickey can’t get a full breath. He’s thought about this a million times, pictured encountering his dad again after all these years. He always stood up and got the first punch, or he had some snappy line to say. Right now, he’s just gaping like a fish.

“Told you if I ever saw your face again, I’d kill you,” Terry reminds him. Mickey’s not sure he actually _told_ him that, but he definitely did get that point across. Mickey can’t think up anything to say. He just fucking _nods_. “Still a faggot?” Terry spits.

Well, that looses Mickey’s tongue. “Always was, always will be. You can try to beat it outta me all you want, but I’m always gonna love sucking cock.”

“Jesus fuck,” Terry complains. “Not even fucking smart enough to lie, huh? I shoulda just drowned you like a rat when your whore mother popped you out in the first place.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and nods at Kev for another shot. “Okay.”

“Heard you’re a snitch, too,” Terry spits. “Not enough of a pussy bitch already, had to go rat too?”

Mickey licks a little tequila off his hand where he spilled. “If you’re gonna kick my ass, can you hurry the fuck up and get to it? I got shit to do.”

“Shit to lick, probably,” Terry says.

“Yeah, hopefully,” Mickey sneers. “Though honestly, I’m the one who likes getting my ass played with most. And getting fucked so hard I scream.”

That’s Terry’s limit, apparently. He cracks Mickey across the face without another word. Mickey should’ve seen that coming. It’s one thing to fuck another dude; sometimes you have to. But for Mickey to be so open about how much he likes _getting_ fucked is just offensive to all Terry is.

Mickey drops off the stool. Mouthing off to his dad when he’s already past tipsy wasn’t his best decision of the day. On the plus side, he’s pretty much forgotten about what a little girl he was at Ian’s, so that’s good. Terry gets in a few quick kicks while Mickey’s down and trying to work out how to move his limbs.

Mickey finally rolls away so Terry can’t kick him again. That’s muscle memory, pretty much. The door opens again while Mickey’s crawling around and bleeding under the bar and then he hears Ian yell, “Oh, fuck _that_.”

“Ian,” Mickey says, relief flooding through his body. Ian’s here now. That’s good. Ian will make sure no one kills him. Mickey likes to have Ian’s back in a fight, but Ian doesn’t really _need_ him to. Especially not against just Terry. Terry’s big and all, but they’re not teenagers anymore. Ian spent a whole lot of time lifting weights in prison, and even though he mostly works behind a desk, he still does some of the manual labor on the construction sites. He’s jacked as fuck. Mickey’s got a semi just thinking about Ian kicking Terry’s ass.

He crawls around the bar so he can watch. But one eye isn’t working so well. Oh, yeah. Terry punched him. It’s probably swelling up already. Mickey’s always gotten black eyes faster than any of his brothers.

Ian’s got Terry down on the ground and he’s kicking him in the ribs. “How’s it feel?” He spits down at him. “How many times have you done this to him?”

Foggily, Mickey realizes this is not a good situation. Ian’s still on parole for another month. A bar fight isn’t exactly acceptable behavior. “Ian,” Mickey says. He pulls himself up with a barstool and grabs onto Ian’s shoulder. “Hey.”

Ian’s chest is heaving. Mickey knows that bloodlust in Ian’s eyes. People who don’t know Ian very well think he’s this innocent, sweet, kind of dopy kid. But he hasn’t been since he was like twelve. Ian likes a good fight. He itches for violence sometimes, even more than Mickey does. Mickey’s never been big on fighting just for the rush of it. Mickey’s beatdowns have always been necessity; either he was backed into a corner, or he was working and it was just business. People have always assumed he loves violence just for the fuck of it, but he doesn’t. Ian, though—Ian kind of does.

“He hit you,” Ian says.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “He does that. I don’t give a fuck. Can we go before your parolee ass gets thrown back inside for another month and I have to cart your brother to school every morning?”

“You want to go?” Ian’s knuckles are all red and Terry’s still on the ground, bleeding. Mickey spits on him for good measure, and then he jerks his head toward the door. Ian slips his arm around Mickey’s waist while they walk.

“I’m fine,” Mickey protests.

“You’re drunk,” Ian counters.

“Oh, yeah,” Mickey remembers. “That is true.”

“You got drunk fast,” Ian comments, helping Mickey navigate a pothole in the sidewalk.

“Tequila,” Mickey tells him.

“That’ll do it,” Ian says. His voice is weird.

“What?” Mickey asks. “You mad about me losing my shit at Fiona?”

“Huh?” Ian sounds genuinely confused. “Oh, yeah. No, I don’t care. I’m just wondering why the fuck I thought coming back to Chicago and staying three blocks away from your dad’s house was going to be a good idea.”

“Where else would we stay?” Mickey asks.

“I think we shouldn’t have come at all. And you took off like…like you thought so, too.”

Mickey stops walking. He weaves a little, but Ian’s still holding onto him. “You thought I wasn’t coming back?” He demands. His heart’s pounding way too hard, all the way up in his throat. “Jesus fuck. After _everything_, you think I’m not coming back? I got fucking locked up for you, Ian. _Twice_. You left me at the goddamn border in fucking _drag_ and I _still_ came crawling back to your ass, and you think your fucking _family_ being assholes is going to be the last straw?”

“I’m just wondering what the last straw will be!” Ian yells back. “Jesus, Mick. You did all that shit and what do I ever do for you? How the hell can you possibly think I’m worth all that? All I ever do is shit on you and you always just come back and take more, so some day I think you’re finally going to realize you should just stay gone!”

That’s so eerily similar to what Mickey was thinking at the Alibi his drunk-brain almost has a panic attack over it, like Ian can read his mind. He used to think that sometimes, when he’d never had anyone who cared enough to pay attention to him and find out his likes and dislikes. He was always kind of freaked out when Ian remembered something he’d said or done.

Mickey remembers that feeling he’s gotten a few times now, that familiar old feeling like he was high off Ian being around but needed to cool it to keep himself safe. This is what Mickey was afraid was going to happen. Here’s Ian, finding an out. Again. He’ll say it’s for Mickey, but it’s not.

“Here it is, huh,” Mickey says flatly. “Here we go.”

“What?” Ian asks.

“This why you wanted to come back to Chicago?” Mickey asks. “You can just tell me to fuck off and stay here with your brothers and sisters?”

Ian’s mouth drops open. “You think I came here to dump you?”

Mickey shrugs. “Feels like it.”

“I just said I’m worried I don’t do enough for you.”

“Ian, I’ve heard every excuse you could possibly give me.” They’re just staring at each other, eerily similar to the first time Ian ripped his heart out. Mickey shrugs. “You said it was for me the first time, too.”

Ian rubs his face. “I don’t want to break up with you,” he says.

“Okay,” Mickey says. “So what you’re saying is, after everything I’ve done, after every time I’ve come running back to you, you still don’t trust me to stay.”

“I’m saying I don’t know if I do enough to make you stay.”

Maybe Ian’s feeling the same way Mickey has been, like one stiff breeze is going to blow this house of cards over. Maybe they’re both falling back into their old feelings, even if it doesn’t make sense after all the years and shit they’ve been through. Mickey runs his tongue over his teeth to wipe some of the tequila-scum off them.

“Well, you just kicked my dad’s ass,” Mickey points out. “That was for me.”

Ian scoffs. “I’d gladly do that even if you didn’t come back for me.”

That makes Mickey laugh a little. This probably isn’t an ideal time to be laughing, but he’s drunk and they just left Terry bleeding on the ground in the Alibi and they’re yelling at each other on the street in front of Ian’s house. In a fit of clarity that only tequila could provide, Mickey realizes they’re not falling back into their old feelings—they’re basically arguing over Mickey loving Ian too much.

Mickey’s annoyed that Ian still thinks he’s going to leave, but he’s glad Ian’s worrying about not doing enough for Mickey. It means Ian gives a shit. It means Ian knows Mickey loves him a whole fucking lot, and it means Ian loves him, too.

“Why are you laughing?” Ian demands. He sounds like he can’t decide if he’s going to laugh, too, or he’s going to go for a father-son combo of ass-kicking tonight.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Mickey tells him. “Holy shit, Ian. You think there’s gonna be a last straw after all this? You think I’m gonna get mad enough someday that I’m like never mind, staying with the dude I’ve loved since I was a fucking _kid_ and dream about every night and went to prison for isn’t worth fighting over the fucking laundry? Jesus Christ, Ian. I took care of you through finding out you’re bipolar and I dealt with your new med shits in a _locked cell_ where we shared a toilet. And you think you gotta do shit for me to make me stay? I’m not fucking going anywhere!”

“At least go the fuck inside!” Some asshat neighbor yells.

“Fuck off!” They both yell back.

Ian’s looking at Mickey kind of weird. “I guess what I really think is you deserve better,” Ian says, a little quieter now. “You should leave me. Sounds like you’ve been thinking I was going to back out, right? I think you shouldn’t have come back for me at all.”

“Well, too fucking late,” Mickey says hotly. “I already did. And now here we are. So if you think I deserve better, why don’t you just fucking do it? Be better. Don’t…don’t leave me again. I wouldn’t have come back if I didn’t think it was worth the risk.”

“I’m not leaving you again,” Ian murmurs, pulling Mickey closer now. “If this ends with us, it’ll have to be you doing it, because you’re it for me, Mick. I knew it the second I let you cross the border without me.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. He’s a little too drunk to not be confused by this conversation, all truth told. “Besides the breaking up stuff, I don’t you think shit on me, you know. You’re the only person who’s ever given two shits about me.”

That just makes Ian look sad. “That doesn’t mean you have to stay with me forever.”

“You just said you weren’t fucking leaving me again, but it sure as fuck sounds like it,” Mickey says, heart dropping from his throat all the way down to his shoes. “You kicking me to the curb again?”

“No,” Ian assures him quickly. He puts his arms around Mickey and holds onto him. “I’m just saying, maybe you could find someone who hasn’t, you know, fucked around on you and kidnapped your baby and left you at the border.”

Mickey snorts into Ian’s shoulder. “God, you’re crazy, huh?”

“I am, Mick,” Ian reminds him seriously. “And I always will be.”

“Alright, drama queen,” Mickey scoffs, like he’s not the one who started all this shit by getting his fucking feelings hurt over a joke. “We’ve fucking established I’m not going anywhere, okay? Quit trying to change my mind. Jesus.”

“You mad at me? Want me to stay at Kev and V’s tonight?” Ian offers.

“No, I fucking don’t,” Mickey says incredulously. “First off, why the hell would I want to stay with your fucking siblings without you? And second, I’m really fucking tired of watching you walk away from me. Okay? That’s my whole goddamn point.”

Mickey feels like he can say that now and it’s not just throwing it in Ian’s face. It’s all out in the open now. They put it in the air. He can point out to Ian that leaving him is the _exact fucking thing_ Mickey’s mad about in the first place. How would leaving him again help?

Ian drops his forehead to rest on Mickey’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Mickey shrugs, moving Ian’s head, too. “Obviously I’m not that mad about it,” he says.

“No, obviously you’re madder than you’ve been acting like you are,” Ian counters. “Did you think if you were mad at me, I’d leave?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey says. He’s not deflecting; he genuinely hasn’t given it any thought. “Figured if you were gonna leave again, you’d leave, and it wouldn’t really matter what I did. I just didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to think about it.”

“Bottling things up isn’t healthy,” Ian says in his annoying therapy voice.

“Yeah, healthy is definitely a word people use about me,” Mickey shoots back. That finally makes Ian laugh a little. “Christ, do we have to be so dramatic? Shit happened in the past and now we’re here. Let’s not let shit happen in the future. Case closed.”

Ian shakes his head and scoffs a little. “Case not very closed, but okay. Let’s go inside. It’s fucking cold out here and I never got to give you your coat.”

Mickey realizes for the first time Ian’s got Mickey’s coat slung over his shoulder. He knew Mickey left without it and brought it to him. No one else in the whole fucking world has ever cared if Mickey had a coat. And now his stupid drunk brain has him almost tearing up. He was feeling all sorry for himself thinking he didn’t get anything from Ian but a shitton of history and good fucks, but Ian remembers what Mickey likes to eat and his favorite shirt and he fights for Mickey and he brings him his fucking coat when it’s four degrees outside and Mickey ran off without it. Maybe it’s not turning himself into prison, but it matters a whole lot to Mickey.

“Whoa,” Ian says, noticing how emotional Mickey’s getting. “Mick?”

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?” Ian asks, bewildered.

“I’m fucking drunk,” Mickey snaps.

“Okay.” Ian still looks a little suspicious, but he can tell he’s not getting anything else out of Mickey. He tugs Mickey up the front steps instead. When they get inside, the state of Mickey’s face and Ian’s hands bring all the competing conversations to a screeching halt.

“Ian, did you hit him?” Debbie scolds.

“No,” Ian says defensively.

“Ran into my dad,” Mickey says.

“Ran into his fist with your face, huh?” Lip asks.

“Yeah, speaking of going back in time,” Mickey mutters. Fiona winces.

“You know I didn’t—”

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey cuts her off. “It’s whatever.”

Fiona looks like she wants to say more, but Ian shakes his head at her. “I’m going to get the first aid kit,” he says. “Mickey needs some ice.”

“Yeah, let’s hurry for that eye,” Debbie says, getting up and going to the freezer.

“It’ll be swollen and black anyway,” Mickey says. “Too late now.”

“Sit down,” Fiona orders. “In this house, you get ice when you get punched in the face.”

“Face isn’t actually the worst of it,” Mickey says. “Kicked me in the ribs. And they just started feeling better.”

“The same side as the cow?” Liam asks, distressed.

“Yeah,” Mickey sighs. “Cow hurt worse, but my dad got more kicks in.”

“Hold on, are you saying you got kicked by a cow?” Lip asks as Debbie hands Mickey two ice packs. He puts one on his ribs while V comes over to press the other to his face. He hisses and jerks away, but she ignores him and follows him anyway.

“Thought Ian would’ve told you,” Mickey says.

Lip rubs his hands down his face. “I don’t know, maybe he did,” he says. “Baby’s teething. I don’t think I’ve slept in four months.”

“Speaking of babies,” V cuts in. She pulls the ice back a little to look Mickey in both eyes. It’s kind of stupid, because he can’t see out of the swollen one anyway. “Svetlana and Yevgeny are coming to dinner tomorrow. You got any issues with that?”

Mickey sucks in a breath. Ian comes down the stairs just in time to hear that. “Last I heard, you were the one who had issues with Lana,” he says. He sits down next to Mickey and starts cleaning out his knuckles.

V shrugs. “We mostly worked through it. And the girls miss Yev. We miss Yev.” She looks at Mickey. “What about you? You miss him?”

“No,” Mickey says bluntly. He doesn’t. He probably shouldn’t admit that, but everyone here knows he’s a lowlife anyway, and he’s drunk and buzzing on post-fight adrenaline so he doesn’t even have the small amount of filter he normally does. He honestly hasn’t given the kid much thought in the last few years. V gives him a severe look and Mickey flips her off with his free hand. “I didn’t ask for a wife and I sure as fuck never asked for a kid. Don’t be getting up my ass about not missing either of them.” He shrugs. “But whatever. I got no problem with them coming. Long as she doesn’t try to squeeze money out of me again.”

V snorts. “She doesn’t need your money. She’s loaded now.”

“Alright, fine,” Mickey says. Ian presses his knee against Mickey’s under the table. Mickey nods at Ian’s knuckles. “You need ice more than I do.”

“Good thing I switched to my feet pretty quick,” Ian says darkly. Mickey huffs. It was pretty satisfying to see Ian kicking Terry like that, until Mickey remembered it could get Ian locked up.

They endure some more small talk and catching up over a frozen lasagna. Liam fills everyone in on his new school and the play he’s in. Fiona promises to fly out to see it and Mickey can see Liam trying not to look too pleased about it.

When they finally go up to bed, Mickey’s sore all over. Getting the shit kicked out of him used to be a near daily experience. He did not miss it.

“You gonna be okay?” Ian asks softly after they situate themselves in bed. He has a hand pressed against Mickey’s chest, right over his heartbeat.

“That wasn’t the worst he’s given me,” Mickey says. It was hardly anything, by Milkovich standards.

“I meant with Lana and Yevgeny coming,” Ian says.

Mickey makes a face. “Who gives a shit?”

“Mickey,” Ian whispers. “Come on. You know I know you better than that.”

Mickey takes his time answering. He can see headlights from passing cars making weird shadows in Ian’s face. Not that he needs light to see Ian’s face. Mickey’s never memorized anything the way he’s memorized the shape of Ian.

“Do I gotta tell him I’m his dad?” Mickey asks quietly. “I mean, he wouldn’t know that, right? He wouldn’t remember me. Maybe we should just keep it that way.”

“Lana might’ve told him,” Ian points out.

“I doubt it,” Mickey protests. “‘Hey, kid, your dad was a gay teenager whose dad made me fuck him at gunpoint and now he’s on the run in Mexico or in a max lockup.’ I don’t think that’s something you go around telling kids.”

Ian sighs and burrows in closer, careful to keep his hands off Mickey’s bruised ribs. “Do you want him to know you’re his dad?”

Mickey doesn’t have to think about that. “No, not really. I’m not gonna do any dad stuff.”

Ian scoffs. “Okay, well, in our families, _dad stuff_ is stealing, beating the shit out of the kid, and lying all the time, so I don’t think anyone _wants_ you to do that dad stuff.”

“Ian, I’m not gonna fucking…what, I’m supposed to play catch with the kid or some shit like that? Fuck off. Two days from now, we’re leaving again, so what’s the point?”

“You could call him sometimes. Visit sometimes. He could come stay with us for a few days.”

“And do what?”

“I bet Joel would let him ride horses,” Ian says. He’s starting to get excited now. “Think how much he’d like that!”

“I don’t have a fucking clue if he’d like that,” Mickey says. “I don’t even know the kid. And like I said, maybe that’s better. What can I offer a kid?”

Ian just looks at him for a minute. He looks sad. “I think you have a lot to offer,” he says softly. “If you opened to other people the way you open up to me—”

“I open up my ass to you,” Mickey interrupts.

“Mickey,” Ian reproaches. “You can love so hard when you let yourself.”

“Yeah, that’s worked out great for me in the past,” Mickey says bitterly. Then he shakes his head at Ian’s desperate look. “Hey, I guess it’s working out now.”

“I don’t know how we get through that part,” Ian says. “I don’t know how you can ever forgive me.”

“Not like I’m really holding it against you,” Mickey reminds him. “I’m here, right? Maybe sometimes I just get to be pissed about it when I think about it.”

“But if you’re just resenting me,” Ian tries.

“Ian,” Mickey says tiredly. “I love you. Think I made my point by now. Maybe you need to quit fucking doubting everything and thinking about the past. Like I said. We’re here now.”

“Okay,” Ian says. He doesn’t sound very happy about it, but Mickey doesn’t know what other solution they could come up with. They’ve tried to talk about it twice tonight and they just go around in circles. Nothing they say or do will change what happened, and Mickey’s not looking to take off. He doesn’t see the point in bringing it up.

“Can I go to sleep?” Mickey asks bitchily. “I got the shit kicked out of me tonight, so I need it.” But he feels kind of bad, because Ian’s obviously still upset about all the other shit. Mickey’s not completely opposed to Ian wishing he hadn’t kicked Mickey to the curb all those times in the past, but Mickey doesn’t like knowing Ian’s hating himself. Maybe he’s just a pussy that way. He nudges Ian. “You came in and rescued me. Fucking white knight, huh?”

Ian laughs a little. He leans up and kisses Mickey’s bruised, swollen face. “I will always come in and rescue you. I’ll always have your back. Deal?”

“Deal,” Mickey agrees. He can’t help but smile a little at that. It’s so stupid and cheesy, but still. That’s a loyalty oath that goes a long way to a Southside kid.

“Hey, Mick?” Ian adds. “I love you, too. Always have, even when I did a shitty job of showing it. You know that, right?”

Mickey’s throat is all tight. He blames the tequila and the beating he took. “Yeah, I know,” he promises. “That’s why I kept coming back. And hey, you knew it when I was shitty about showing it, too.”

Ian gives Mickey a real kiss and settles back into the bed. “Goodnight, Mickey,” he murmurs.

“Night, Ian,” Mickey says. He doesn’t fall asleep for a while, though. He watches Ian’s chest rise and fall until Ian’s steady breathing and heartbeat lulls him to sleep, too.

Mickey’s nervous all day. He keeps washing his hands for some reason. Like the kid’s going to touch his hands. And like Mickey cares if they’re dirty if he does. Ian’s siblings pretty much steer clear of Mickey. Fiona, Debbie, and Liam go to the mall for those Thanksgiving sales and everyone else works on last minute dinner stuff. Mickey smokes and drinks beer on the couch while Debbie’s kid watches that stupid parade on TV.

When Svetlana finally shows up with the kid, Mickey’s ready to puke. He hasn’t eaten all day and he’s shaking from all the chain-smoking. She just stands there in the doorway for a second and they stare at each other. The kid’s at her side, wrestling with his coat.

“Hello,” Svetlana finally says. Mickey doesn’t say anything back. She raises her eyebrows and leans down to help the kid with the buttons on his coat. They walk by Mickey without another word and head into the kitchen. Kev and V’s twin girls squeal and then the kitchen gets very loud. Mickey blows out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. Ian comes looking for him in about two seconds.

“You good?” He asks, putting a hand on Mickey’s arm.

“Guess so,” Mickey says with a shrug. Ian rubs his hand up and down Mickey’s arm. It’s kind of distracting. Not really in a bad way, though. That’s probably why he’s doing it. Mickey lets himself rest his weight against Ian. “How long’s this dinner gonna be?”

Ian laughs a little and starts rubbing Mickey’s back. “You know you can go upstairs whenever you want. It’s not like we’re locking you in.”

Mickey rolls his eyes a little. He feels like a pussy saying it, but with everything they’ve been talking about the last few days, Mickey figures Ian might need to hear it. “I’m staying wherever you are.”

Ian’s face lights up and Mickey ducks his head with his own smile. Ian takes Mickey’s hand and starts heading toward the kitchen. “Come on,” he murmurs. “You need to eat something.”

Mickey doesn’t argue. Ian doesn’t really take no for an answer when he thinks Mickey needs something these days. Maybe Mickey should’ve realized that was Ian trying to take care of him, trying to make up for all the times he left Mickey behind. In the kitchen, V has the kid in her lap and she and Svetlana are talking animatedly. Mickey swallows hard. The last time he saw Yevgeny, he was a baby. He couldn’t even talk. Now he’s holding a whole conversation with V.

Mickey wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t miss Yevgeny. But he did sort of start to care about the little rugrat, back in the day. Svetlana brought him to the joint every once in a while, back when she was giving Mickey dudes to whack. They’d sort of wave at each other through the glass and Yevgeny would babble and drool into the phone. What’s there to miss?

Mickey wonders what his son is like, though. That seems normal. The little dude shares his DNA. As far as he knows, anyway. Without a DNA test, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be sure. It probably doesn’t matter. Not like he’s planning to get custody or anything like that. And there’s a good chance the kid _does_ share his DNA, even if Mickey’s not actually his father. Mickey shakes that thought out of his head. Fucking gross.

Liam sits down next to Mickey and looks over at Yevgeny. “Are you going to talk to him?” Liam asks.

“Why?” Mickey asks, probably way more aggressively than he needs to.

Liam makes a face. “Don’t freak out at me.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Mickey protests.

“Yeah, you are,” Liam says, but he doesn’t sound mad about it. “’Cause of him?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey mutters. He wants everyone to shut up so they can eat. He just knows the Gallaghers are the kind of assholes who won’t let anyone eat until they go around the table saying some bullshit about Thanksgiving. They need to hurry up and get it over with. Then tomorrow he, Ian, and Liam are going home and he can get back to shoveling shit and squeezing cow tits. Somehow even that’s better than this.

Ian does that freaky mind-reading thing again and calls out over everyone’s din, “Hey, let’s get the food on the table!” Luckily, everyone else agrees, and Lip, Fiona, and Ian start bringing dishes over to the table. Ian puts the mashed potatoes right in front of Mickey, because he knows that’s Mickey’s favorite. There are some definite perks to being with a guy who not only knows everything about you, but also feels like he has to make a ton of shit up to you. Mickey’s rolling in good fucks and potatoes these days.

Mickey’s giving Ian pleading eyes across the table and he knows Ian knows what he’s begging for because Ian’s laughing at him as he says, “Okay, everyone has to say something they’re grateful for!” Mickey shakes his head and mouths _I’m gonna fucking kill you_ at his boyfriend. Ian doesn’t look the least bit bothered. So much for making up for all that shit.

“I’ll start!” Fiona says right away. “I’m grateful we all get to be together.”

Everyone groans because that was obviously the easiest answer. “I’m grateful for the good things in my life I’ve gotten through my sobriety,” Lip pipes up. He gets a few pats on the back from Kev and a hug from Fiona. Next, Kev says he’s grateful for V and the twins. If they’re going down the line, Mickey’s next. He slouches in his chair while everyone turns to look at him.

“You don’t have to, Mick,” Ian says. But everyone’s _looking_ at Mickey and he’ll look like a real jackass if he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t usually give a shit about looking like a jackass, but he still has to deal with the rest of the day here and the Gallaghers never shut up when they think you slighted them. Mickey has to say something.

“Good to be out,” he mumbles.

“Do you mean out like _out_ or out of prison?” Debbie jokes. Mickey rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they’re going to get stuck in the back of his skull. She’s yucking it up at her own joke. It’s not actually the worst gay joke Mickey’s ever heard, and if there weren’t so many goddamn people here he might laugh, but he’s got a reputation to maintain here.

Luckily, V doesn’t hate him, because she moves right along and says she’s grateful for the bar doing so well. For some reason, that makes Svetlana get kind of shifty, and Mickey vaguely remembers Ian telling him something about Svetlana trying to take over the Alibi or something. Fucking awkward situation. Mickey’s glad he doesn’t have to pretend to care. Ian can give him details of any fallout later.

Everyone’s answers are pretty basic. One of the twins says food, the other says pie. Yevgeny squeaks out, “Ice cream!” and then laughs at himself and Mickey feels like he’s going to puke. The kid looks like him. He makes faces Mickey recognizes from the mirror. It’s so fucking weird.

Ian’s the last to go. He looks right over at Mickey. Mickey swallows hard, because he can just tell Ian’s about to say something too heartfelt right now. He doesn’t want to hear the word _love_ over the fucking turkey with everyone watching. But Ian _does_ know him, after all these years. He knows Mickey would completely crawl out of his skin for that.

“I’m grateful,” Ian says softly. “Just in general. And I’m really grateful for getting back the things I thought I’d lost forever. I’m grateful for the chance to keep them around forever instead.”

Mickey’s face is burning. Kev elbows him. Everyone knows Ian’s talking about Mickey. It’s not as horrible as Mickey thought, though. He ignores Kev and looks at Ian across the table. Ian smiles at him, this soft little smile that has Mickey’s stomach doing cartwheels.

This is the kind of shit he used to beat himself up for dreaming about. He’d think about living with Ian and then call himself a fucking pussy as he heard Terry banging around in the other room. He never thought he’d get this kind of thing. Holidays together? Jesus, he never even imagined it. It was so far outside the realm of what he thought was possible.

Dinner’s uneventful, overall. Mickey keeps glancing up at Ian and Ian’s grinning every time. Sometimes at Mickey, sometimes at something one of his siblings said. He’s fucking _glowing_. Mickey’s chest aches at the sight of it. This is why he can’t ever leave Ian, no matter what kind of bullshit they go through. He loves him too fucking much. He’s never going to find anyone else who makes him feel like that. How could he? How the hell would he explain all the shit he’s been through to someone who doesn’t know any of it? Ian was _there_ for most of it. The thought of falling in love with anyone else is fucking bizarre.

When everyone’s finished eating and the kids are running around and screaming like fucking banshees, Svetlana comes and stands in front of Mickey, all determined. “You want to spend time with Yevgeny?” She asks, careful not to let Yevgeny overhear them.

“Uh,” is the only response Mickey can come up with on the spot.

“You can if you want,” she says. “But you will not take him away from me.”

“No fucking worries there,” Mickey says incredulously. “Like I’d want to.” Mickey was wary even of taking Liam with them, and that kid’s old enough to mostly fend for himself. Like he wants a fucking toddler hanging around. Can the kid even shit by himself? Mickey’s not dealing with that.

Svetlana’s face clears. “Good,” she says. “But do you?”

Mickey sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “I don’t fucking know,” he says, close enough to a whine that he almost flinches instinctively at the phantom memory of Terry’s backhand.

Svetlana shrugs. “Okay,” she says simply. She holds out her hand. “Give phone to me. You take my number and call if you want. If something bad happens, I call you.”

Mickey hands it over. That arrangement seems fine to him, but he can’t help but feel suspicious. “You don’t want my money?”

Svetlana scoffs as she’s typing her number into his phone. “You have no money,” she points out. “I have money. Never need man again.”

Mickey huffs. “Congrats. You can go full lesbo, huh?”

Svetlana shrugs again. “Choice is much easier with money.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Mickey says dryly.

Svetlana hands his phone back. “You can call if you want,” she repeats. “But only if you do not run away to different country again. Yevgeny needs stable life.”

“I don’t got any plans to go anywhere,” Mickey tells her. He doesn’t know if he’s saying he wants to talk to the kid. He doesn’t know if he does want to. He doesn’t know anything. He just knows he’s been looking at the kid all night and his heart keeps pounding. He has no idea if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Svetlana studies him with narrowed eyes. Then she nods. “Okay,” she says. “Your choice.”

Mickey narrows his own eyes. “You’re being a fuckton better about this than you were before.”

Svetlana stiffens a little. It’s barely perceptible, but Mickey kind of learned how to read her body language back in the day. He had to. He saw her as a snake and he needed warning of when she was going to strike.

“I have money now,” she reminds him. “I take care of me and my Zhenya. If my Zhenya has food and home and warm clothes, I don’t care about the rest. We do fine without you, but Zhenya may want father.”

“So you want me to talk to him?” Mickey asks. His heart’s hammering away again.

“No,” she says. She sounds like she’s getting a little frustrated. She sighs and starts over. “If you want,” she tries again. “I am saying…we are fine. Extras,” at this, she waves her hand at Mickey, so he figures he’s an extra, “not so important. He will be happy if you talk to him or not. You did not want baby, and now I do not need money from you.”

Mickey thinks he’s kind of getting it, but he feels almost alarmed. Is she trying to be _nice_ to him? They can’t meet each other’s eyes. Mickey only knows how to accept kindness from one person and she is not it.

“Uh, okay,” he finally says.

“Okay,” she echoes. There’s a beat of awkward silence, and then she walks off without another word. Ian comes over right away.

“What was that?” He asks, taking the empty seat by Mickey so they can talk without everyone listening in. “She gave you her number? You gonna talk to Yev sometimes?”

Mickey blows out a breath. “I don’t know,” he says. “She said I can if I want. And she’ll let me know if there’s like…an emergency, I guess. Like you know on TV when people get fucking cancer and need blood or something? I could do that.”

Ian’s kind of laughing at Mickey, because Mickey sure as fuck doesn’t know anything about cancer or blood, but Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s leg reassuringly. “You probably don’t have to decide right now,” he points out.

“Probably better if I don’t,” Mickey says softly. He knows Ian remembers that conversation. Ian sighs, but he doesn’t try arguing. Instead, he squeezes Mickey’s leg.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he repeats. “But it’s good to be able to get in touch if you want to.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Do you think—” He cuts himself off.

“Do I think you have a lot to offer Yevgeny? Yes.”

“Shut up,” Mickey complains. “That wasn’t even what I was going to say. Do you think I should try to find Mandy?”

Ian looks startled. “Well, yeah,” he says. “I didn’t know you wanted to.”

“I don’t know if she wants me to,” Mickey points out.

“I think she’d be happy to hear from you,” Ian says.

“How would I find her?” Mickey asks. Ian might know the general area where she is, but it’s a big fucking world. It’s not like Mickey’s going to go around knocking on random doors, trying to find the right house.

“I have her number,” Ian says. “You want to talk to her? We could go upstairs and call her right now.”

“You’ve had her number this whole time?” Mickey asks, shocked. He thought when Ian said she wasn’t around that was all Ian knew. “Have you been talking to her?”

“Almost every day,” Ian admits. He looks a little uncomfortable, but Mickey should’ve known Ian did. He was Mandy’s friend before Mickey ever came into the picture. “I didn’t know…” Ian shrugs. “I didn’t know how much you’d want to know.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Mickey says. He snorts. “This conversation doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“Well, we both know that we don’t know anything,” Ian points out with a laugh. He squeezes Mickey’s leg again. “You don’t have to decide that right now, either.

“What do I have to decide right now?” Mickey asks, because he feels like he’s backed into a corner right now and that always brings the claws out, even mildly.

Ian doesn’t take the bait. He’s too giddy from being around his family. He leans in and kisses Mickey and says, “Right now, you have to decide if you want ice cream with your pie.”

“Of course I fucking do,” Mickey says. “You think I’m some kind of fucking animal?”

“Well,” Ian says, raising his eyebrows. He gets up and goes back to the kitchen where all the desserts are.

“You didn’t ask me what kind of pie I want,” Mickey says.

“Because I know you want apple,” Ian says confidently. He’s not wrong. Mickey fucking hates pumpkin pie and he doesn’t see why everyone acts like it’s so great. It’s disgusting. There’s also some kind of berry pie but Mickey’s not eating something purple if it’s not a grape Slurpee.

“Think you know me so well, huh?” Mickey mutters under his breath while Ian puts the pie and ice cream on a plate.

Ian sits down beside Mickey again when he brings the pie over. He looks incredibly smug. “Yeah,” he says, swiping a finger through Mickey’s ice cream and licking it. He winks at Mickey. “I really do.”

Mickey shakes his head and digs into his pie. Fucked for life, he supposes. Though maybe in a good way this time. He glances over at Ian from the corner of his eye. Ian grins at him and Mickey laughs a little under his breath. Yeah, okay. Definitely in a good way this time.

Mickey’s heading back to the bedroom after taking a piss and he passes Fiona in the hallway. She stops and kind of stares at him in a way that he figures means she wants him to stop, too. He sighs and does.

“What?” He barks.

“I’m sorry, Mickey,” she says. She’s all earnest and her eyes are all big and sad. Mickey makes a face, but she goes on before he can say anything. “Not just for my joke yesterday. I mean I’m sorry for…” She sighs. “I’m guessing Ian told you what I said when he was thinking about running off with you?”

Mickey crosses his arms. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m sorry for. I’m not sorry he didn’t go with you, because let’s be honest, that wouldn’t be a very good life for him.” She tips her head. “Not that he did so hot on his own, I guess. Anyway, I just—I have this guy who’s probably the only one I’ll ever really, truly love. But he’s a shitshow, and he treats me like shit. He blows my life to hell every time he comes back around. And I guess I thought that must be how it is for everyone.”

“I don’t treat Ian like shit,” Mickey says. He clears his throat. “Anymore,” he allows, because there’s no need to rewrite history or anything.

“I know that,” Fiona assures him. “Me saying that to Ian was more about me than it was about him or you. But I’m sorry if you felt—I’m sorry if I made you feel like you weren’t welcome here. Back when Ian was going through everything with his diagnosis, you were—”

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey cuts her off, because that’s not his favorite thing to think about. The memory of Ian’s absolute disgust with Mickey while Mickey was telling him to go to the clinic still makes him feel sick.

“Okay,” Fiona says. “Sorry, I’m getting all touchy-feely, huh? Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve actually been going to therapy. I always said Gallaghers don’t do therapy, but I got money now, and therapy’s what people with money do, right? And fuck, I needed it.”

“You all do,” Mickey says.

Fiona rolls her eyes. “Oh, yeah, that’s not at all a pot and kettle situation.”

“The fuck is a pot and kettle?” Mickey asks, just to be annoying.

She ignores it. “I just want you to know I’m really happy you came back for Ian. I’m glad you guys are working it out. And don’t…please don’t give up on him, okay?”

Mickey swallows. “Been a long time since I was the one giving up,” he mumbles, looking down at his feet.

“I know,” she says. “And so does he. We’re all just fucked up.”

Mickey huffs. “Yeah.”

Fiona blows out a breath. “Okay. You can go back to bed now. Sorry to gush at you in the middle of the night.”

Mickey wrinkles his brow a little at her phrasing, but he shrugs. “It’s not…I mean, whatever.”

She squeezes his shoulder and heads off to the bathroom. It takes Mickey a second to get his bearings enough to go back to bed. He slides in beside Ian, asleep already, and he buries his face in Ian’s hair. There aren’t a lot of things that make sense to Mickey lately. Even his relationship with Ian doesn’t make sense all the time. But the feel of Ian beside him, the smell of Ian’s hair—that’s something Mickey’s always understood perfectly.

Liam’s trying to hide the fact that he’s tearing up when they’re saying their goodbyes, but Mickey’s not going to call him on it. Liam’s had a shitty life, but he had siblings who cared enough about him to make him cry when he leaves them. Mickey didn’t have that. Once upon a time, Mickey would’ve made fun of him for that to cover up his own jealousy, but he’d like to believe he’s growing or some shit like that.

“Was it as horrible as you thought it was going to be?” Ian asks as they take the exit onto the freeway. Mickey pulls down the sun visor to check his face in the mirror. It’s very obvious he got the shit beat of out of him.

“Running into my dad wasn’t so hot,” he reminds Ian.

Ian winces. “Right.”

Mickey sighs a little before forcing himself to say, “But the rest of it wasn’t so bad.”

Lip’s a lot more tolerable than Mickey remembers. Not so self-righteous. Apparently he was pretty deep in the bottle and hit rock bottom before he got sober. There’s a part of Mickey that even feels kind of bad for him about that. It’s mostly just because he knows it must’ve sucked for Ian to see his brother going through that, but still. Lip always got on Mickey’s nerves, but they did have something of an understanding. And Mickey’s known him since they were in kindergarten.

Fiona was the one who really surprised Mickey. He hadn’t seen her in years and all he knew about her recently was she wanted Ian to stay away from him and then she got money and fucked off out of Chicago. Their little talk in the hallway made him feel better. It actually hurt him a lot to hear that Fiona wanted Ian to stay away from him. Mickey remembered them being friends, almost, at the tail end of his thing with Ian back in the day. He won’t mind if she doesn’t hate him now. Fiona’s got balls, that’s for sure, and Mickey’s always appreciated that in a person.

Ian steals a quick glance over at Mickey. “Even the part where we talked about all the shit from the past?”

“You mean when you stood in front of our house and screamed about the shit from the past,” Liam corrects snottily. He’s all grumpy from almost crying earlier and probably thinks he has to protect his street cred. Mickey will let it slide. This time.

“Got you to finally quit tiptoeing around, didn’t it?” Mickey asks. “Maybe now you’ll just get mad at me when you’re mad at me and I won’t have to pretend I don’t hear your passive-aggressive ass snorting and breathing all mad.”

Ian cracks up laughing. “I do not passive-aggressively snort and breathe when I’m mad.”

“Oh, you totally do when you’re trying not to lose your temper,” Liam backs Mickey up. “It’s super annoying. It’s better if you just punch me and get it over with.”

“I’ve never punched you!” Ian says, scandalized. “You’re too young for me to punch. I’ve never even punched Carl. Only Lip.”

“You tried to kill Fiona,” Liam points out.

“Hey,” Mickey scolds. “No fair bringing up the shit he did when he was off his meds. Crazy don’t count. That’s why he got out of the joint as soon as he did.”

“Crazy does count, sort of,” Ian corrects mildly. “It just counts different. That’s why I still had to _go_ to the joint.”

“Well, crazy don’t count to me,” Mickey says, thinking about how Ian can’t look at him without his eyes all full of guilt sometimes. Ian looks over at him for a second, gauging how serious Mickey’s being. Mickey looks back steadily. He’s been thinking all this time that Ian should just know how much he means to Mickey, and he does still think that, kind of. But he didn’t realize until Ian spoke up that Ian was worried Mickey would start thinking Ian wasn’t worth all that love.

Mickey can’t lie; it crossed his mind a few times while he was crossing the border alone with Ian in his rearview mirror, or when he was getting grilled by some lawyer chick about the cartel just so he could be locked in a cell for two years. But he never thinks that when Ian’s actually with him. So maybe Mickey needs to make sure Ian still knows about that. Maybe Ian can’t make anything up to Mickey when he’s afraid Mickey’s going to hold it against him forever.

“Okay,” Ian murmurs. He smiles at Mickey and then turns his eyes back to the road. He puts his hand on Mickey’s knee, and he keeps it there the whole ride back. Mickey doesn’t find himself complaining at all.

“Shit, son, what happened to you?” Joel asks first thing when Mickey shows up on Monday. Mickey gingerly touches his eye.

“Ah, ran into someone I should’ve avoided,” Mickey says with a shrug. He winces a little when the shrug pulls at his bruised ribs. Ian had shaken his head when he looked at the purple boot-prints on Mickey’s side.

“Your ribs can’t catch a break,” he’d said fretfully, pressing gentle fingers to the skin there.

“Wasn’t Ian’s brother getting his payback, was it?” Joel asks, only half-joking.

Mickey snorts. “Lip’s girl just had a baby. He’d probably fall asleep halfway through a fight.”

Joel laughs. “Oh, yeah, the newborn days are hard. You’re so tired you can hardly think straight. You have a good trip, then? Aside from the punch you took?”

“It was fine,” Mickey says. He doesn’t go into details. He’s only known this old dude for a few months. He’s not going to talk about his dad kicking the shit out of him or facing down his ex-wife and his son. That’s the kind of shit only Ian gets to hear about.

“Not in any trouble, are you?” Joel presses. “With whatever that fight was? No one’s coming after you?”

Mickey kind of rolls his eyes. Like Terry would drive that far for a fight that didn’t put money or drugs in his hand. His hatred of Mickey is more opportunistic. He’ll probably try to kill Mickey anytime they’re in the same room, but he’s not going to seek Mickey out to do it. That’d be too much work.

“Nah,” Mickey says. “It’s fine.”

“Good,” Joel says. He finally shuts up and gets back to work. Mickey’s ribs hurt a little when he lifts the shovel, but it’s not so bad. Terry only kicked him a few times.

But when they go in for lunch, Birdy loses her shit. “Mickey!” She cries. “Who did this to you?”

“I’m alright,” he tells her, stiffening when she comes up and grabs his chin to get a better look at his eye. “Ran into my dad in Chicago.”

Joel and Birdy both go silent. Mickey didn’t mean to say it was his dad. But while they were with Ian’s siblings, Mickey didn’t have to filter anything. They all know what Terry’s like. Mickey forgot to guard himself now that he’s around normal people.

“Your dad did this to you?” Birdy asks, voice hushed.

Mickey eases back so she’s not touching him anymore. “It’s not a big deal,” Mickey tries.

“He do this kind of thing to you a lot?” Joel asks.

“Well, yeah, when I was a kid and I lived with him,” Mickey says, getting kind of annoyed now. “I haven’t even seen him in years. This isn’t that bad. And Ian came in and beat the shit out of him, so we’re even.” Not really, since it would take years of beatings to even up with all the violence from Terry, but whatever.

Birdy and Joel are looking at each other and Mickey can’t read the looks on their faces. He’s never been very good at that. He can tell when people are pissed and that’s about it. Then Birdy turns to look at him and she’s got fucking _tears_ in her eyes and Mickey feels panic rising in his throat.

“He hurt you your whole life?” She asks.

“I…” Mickey shifts uneasily. “I don’t really want to talk about this shit, you know.”

“Oh, Mickey,” she breathes. She comes up like she’s going to hug him and he jumps a little, and that makes her more upset. Mickey’s so uncomfortable he thinks he might puke.

“This isn’t even bad,” he mumbles again, not looking at either of them.

“That kind of makes it worse,” Joel says quietly.

“Can I—” Mickey gnaws at his lip. “Can we just fucking drop this? I don’t…I mean, Jesus. You trying to be my fucking shrink or something? Leave me the hell alone.”

“Okay,” Birdy says softly. “How about we eat some lunch?”

“You guys gonna be weird about it?” Mickey demands. “I don’t have to eat. I’ll just go outside until I can go home.”

“You can go home whenever you want,” Joel tells him.

“Stop,” Mickey barks. “Stop—I don’t know. Stop trying to be fucking nice to me. I can’t—” Mickey breaks off and blows out a breath. “Christ.”

“Okay,” Birdy says, voice brisk now. “Come sit down and eat a sandwich. We won’t say another word.”

“Birdy,” Joel starts, but she cuts him off with a look.

“Come eat, Mickey,” she prompts when he doesn’t move. He watches her go over to the table and sit down expectantly. He bites at his lip some more, deliberating. He is hungry. And it’s actually been a while since he’s had to skip meals. He ate plenty while they were locked up, and Ian practically shoves food down Mickey’s throat now. Missing lunch would be harder than it used to be. And he can’t just storm out, either. It’s one thing to do that at Ian’s house, with just his siblings around. This is a job. Mickey needs to get paid. They have bills and shit.

Mickey scratches at his lip and then slinks over to the table. Birdy pours him a glass of juice without another word, and Mickey lets himself relax.

Mickey falls asleep on the couch watching TV most nights. He gets up fucking early, so he’s tired all the time. He usually leans against Ian and it’s comfortable and nice. Tonight, Ian shakes him awake like always and they head down the hall to go to bed. But Ian’s watching Mickey way too closely to not have something on his mind.

Mickey’s taking a piss while Ian does his ridiculous face routine—there’s all these lotions and shit he puts on his face, and Mickey gives him a ton of shit about it but he has to admit the end result works out pretty well—until finally Mickey just stares back and says, “You gonna fucking tell me what’s up or we gonna have a staring contest?”

Ian sighs. “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Just tell me,” Mickey says, zipping up. “Dragging it out sure as fuck won’t make me like it more.”

“Some guys from work want me to come to a bar with them on Friday after work,” Ian says.

Mickey shrugs. “So? You do that all the time. Why would I care?”

Ian winces. “They want you to come, too.”

That pretty much stops Mickey in his tracks. “Why?”

“’Cause they want to meet you,” Ian says. He sounds calm, but sort of resigned. He knows Mickey won’t go. It’s not so much the two of them going out together so much as it is Mickey’s resistance to going out at all. He only ever went to the Alibi because Kev let him start a tab and he needed to drink even when he was broke.

“Why?” Mickey repeats.

Ian rolls his eyes. “Maybe because I talk about you and they’re starting to think I made you up?”

Mickey snorts. “If you’re gonna lie about dating someone, why the fuck would you pick an ex-con who never even finished high school?”

“Because he’s got an ass that won’t quit,” Ian shoots back, deadpan. Mickey laughs despite himself. Ian looks at him sideways. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about all the guys at work knowing we’re dating.”

Mickey sighs. “I don’t love random dudes knowing our shit,” he admits. He’s almost blushing when he adds, “But, you know. I mean—well, not like we’re gonna quit dating, so…”

Ian grins. “Yeah. I know.”

Mickey bites his lip. “You talk about me at work?” He asks quietly.

“Oh, God, Mick, I never shut up about you,” Ian promises him. He pulls Mickey closer with his hands on Mickey’s hips. “Think about you all day, so I might as well talk about you, too.”

Mickey drops his face to Ian’s shoulder. “What do you say?” He asks, muffled. He wonders what these guys all think he’s like.

“I say you’re sarcastic and stubborn and grumpy,” Ian says. He turns his head and presses his lips to Mickey’s temple. “And funny and sweet and hot as fuck.”

Mickey’s not sure how to process this. “I’m not sweet,” he says weakly.

That makes Ian laugh at him. He’s swaying a little, moving them both. “Yeah, you are,” he says confidently. “You just like to hide it.”

“Not from you, though, huh?” Mickey asks. He wonders if that feeds into his idea that he’s Ian’s bitch. But as much as he instinctively jerks away from the descriptor of being sweet, it doesn’t actually feel like a bad thing.

“Not from me,” Ian confirms, a smile in his voice.

“You want me to go with you,” Mickey says. It’s not a question, because he knows the answer.

Ian shrugs. “Depends,” he says, which kind of surprises Mickey. “If you come, are you gonna be an asshole the whole time and not talk to anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey says. “Maybe. That a deal breaker?” He can’t promise what kind of mood he’s in. And a lot of his attitude depends on how the dudes from Ian’s work treat him first.

Ian shrugs again. “You gonna sit far away from me and not touch me or even look at me the whole time?”

Mickey has to think that one over. He knows he should be able to say no right off the bat, especially since everyone they’d be sitting with already knows they’re together. But it’s not that easy for Mickey to be so carefree about anything, really, but especially not that. Not with people he doesn’t know. He’s sure they all like Ian—when Ian’s on his meds and not being a total batshit weirdo, people like him pretty much right off the bat—but Mickey knows how conditional friendship can be when actual evidence of being gay enters the picture. Especially in a fucking nowhere town full of rednecks.

“I wouldn’t sit far away,” Mickey says quietly. “Gotta be ready to have your back.”

“But you might not look at me or touch me,” Ian concludes.

“That’s the deal breaker,” Mickey guesses.

Ian pulls back to study Mickey’s face. “I don’t think so,” he finally says.

“Really?” Mickey asks, thinking of Ian saying he wasn’t going to be a secret or a mistress anymore. Ian must know exactly what Mickey’s thinking, because he sighs.

“Mickey, I’m not seventeen and manic anymore,” he reminds Mickey. “And we’re not hiding anymore. Not hiding doesn’t mean you have to hold my hand and kiss me in front of everyone. I don’t think you’d even do that if you were straight.”

“Probably not,” Mickey admits. He scratches at his eyebrow. “So are you saying you want me to come or you don’t care?”

“I always want you to come,” Ian says. He covers Mickey’s mouth before Mickey can make a crack about coming. “But I know you hate shit like that, so I’m not going to be mad if you don’t.”

Mickey pushes Ian’s hand away. He bites his thumbnail while he thinks. He’s never going to be someone who likes going out with people, especially people he doesn’t know. But Ian will be there, and Ian wants to—what, show him off? He wants people to know Mickey. That’s not a terrible thought. Well, people knowing Mickey is kind of a terrible thought, but not the thought of Ian wanting people to know him. It means he’s not embarrassed of Mickey, probably.

Besides, if Ian’s going to get jumped at some redneck bar, Mickey’s going to be there to bash some heads. Mickey cracks his neck. “What about Liam?”

Ian’s eyes light up with hope and Mickey kind of feels sick. He can’t really explain why. It just seems like Ian shouldn’t hope for shit with Mickey. But then again, Mickey’s the one who keeps coming back, isn’t he? So maybe Ian’s okay to have hope. Mickey doesn’t let himself consider that maybe he’s the one who shouldn’t be hoping. For one thing, he decided he’s just trusting Ian to stick around. For another, hope isn’t really something Mickey’s ever had a lot of anyway.

“Liam’s thirteen,” Ian reminds him. “He’ll be fine home alone for a few hours.”

“A _few_ hours?” Mickey echoes, dismayed. He’s only half-joking. Ian laughs at him and leans in for a kiss.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he whispers. Mickey’s heart thuds almost painfully as he realizes it was already going to be worth his while as long as Ian was happy about it.

Mickey shoves a hand through his hair one last time and rolls out his neck before he pushes past the bored dude checking IDs and heads into the bar. He’d feel better about this if he and Ian could’ve come together, but Ian came straight from work. Mickey rubs his eye as he scans the crowd to find Ian. It’s not hard; even in low light, that red hair stands out.

Mickey walks up the way he always walks up, but he notices about a half-step from Ian a few people are taken aback. Ian’s described Mickey’s walk as more of a march before, so Mickey figures people find it off-putting. Whatever. It’s the first of what’s sure to be many of his personality traits they’ll find off-putting.

He puts his hand on Ian’s shoulder. Ian glances over and then turns around, grinning big at Mickey. “Mickey!” He says excitedly. He squeezes at Mickey’s arm, but he doesn’t grab him in a hug or a kiss. He knows Mickey’s already practically vibrating out of his skin. “Guys, this is Mickey.” He introduces a bunch of people and Mickey immediately forgets their names.

“So you do exist, huh?” Some big, burly dude says. Mickey doesn’t like the look of him. He looks like all the guys who run around with Terry. Then again, Mickey spent his whole life running around with Terry, so what does he know?

“Yep,” Mickey says. Ian hands him a beer and Mickey’s grateful to have something to do with his hands.

“Come over here,” another guy says, nodding across the room. “Jim’s got a pool table.”

“Don’t,” Ian says under his breath as they walk over.

“What?” Mickey asks.

“Don’t hustle my coworkers.”

“I’m not hustling people in a town this small where we’re _staying_,” Mickey says. “You think I’m fucking stupid?”

“Nope,” Ian promises. “Sorry, I forget your criminal prowess sometimes.”

That makes Mickey laugh a little. Criminal prowess. Sure. He remembers Carl saying he must not be as good as he thinks he is since he got caught. Mickey shakes his head a little to dislodge that thought. He and Ian cleared the air after that, so he doesn’t need to remember Carl basically pointing out how whipped Mickey is.

Mickey and Ian hang back and watch some of the other guys playing pool. Ian’s right in the middle of the conversation, but he’s not driving it or anything. He’s always been fine just being part of a group, not necessarily leading it, dreams of being an officer and his short career as a stripper notwithstanding. Mickey’s glad. If Ian were one of those assholes who always has to be the center of attention, Mickey would never go out with him anywhere. Ian’s standing close enough to Mickey that their shoulders are touching, and he might be leaning into it a little more than he would anyone else, but he doesn’t try holding Mickey’s hand or kissing him or anything.

Mickey would like to think he could handle that someday. But probably not here. They’re attracting some looks just because it’s a small town and people already know they’re gay, and that’s putting Mickey on edge. But no one’s saying anything and no one’s coming over, so Mickey bites his lip when the stares get to him and tries to act like a normal human being. He just doesn’t have much practice in that.

They’ve been hanging around for about an hour when Mickey hears, “Hey, Mickey,” from across the room. He and Ian turn at the same time. It’s Joel, walking up with a few guys who look enough like him that Mickey thinks they must be his brothers or cousins or something.

“Hey,” Mickey says. Joel sticks his hand out for a shake. That seems pretty fucking weird, but Mickey goes with it. He doesn’t really know the protocol of seeing your boss outside of work and outside of his own home.

“You ventured out, huh?” Joel asks. If Mickey had to put money on it, he’d say Joel’s already had a drink or two. The top button of his shirt’s undone, which Mickey’s never seen, and his cheeks are a little red. He’s not drunk or anything, but he’s talking just a little louder than usual. “I don’t ever see you here,” Joel adds.

“Yeah, well.” Mickey shrugs and nods at Ian. “He wanted me to.”

Joel nods around at some of Ian’s coworkers. He probably knows most of them. “Showing you off to his friends, huh?”

Mickey shifts a little. Joel’s not saying anything bad, but he’s being a little loud about it. Anyone who already heard about Ian and Mickey could read some confirmation into what Joel’s saying. More people are starting to look over and it makes Mickey sweat.

“Hey, Joel,” Ian says.

“Ian,” Joel says, shaking his hand, too. Ian looks a little taken aback, so Joel must be holding on a little tight. If they weren’t in public, surrounded by rednecks, this would be kind of funny. Mickey’s never even considered Joel drunk before. Somehow it never occurred to Mickey that Joel and Birdy might drink. Which is weird, because Mickey usually thinks it’s weird to consider people _not_ drinking.

“You guys know Joel?” One of the guys from Ian’s work asks.

“He’s Mickey’s boss,” Ian supplies.

“No shit?” The guy asks. “You coming on the drive in the spring?”

Joel snorts. “Not much of a drive anymore.” He can tell Mickey’s confused, so he says, “We do a cattle drive, move the cows into a different pasture come spring. Used to be a big thing with lots of people helping out. Now, not so much.”

Ian throws Mickey a little sidelong look. “Sounds like he’d probably need to learn to ride a horse before then, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” Joel says.

Ian grins wickedly. Mickey rolls his eyes. “Stop,” he admonishes. The last thing they need is these rednecks to realize Ian’s imagining spank bank material about Mickey and getting out their pitchforks.

“Maybe you could come too,” Joel says to Ian. “You know how to ride a horse?”

“Bet he knows how to ride something,” someone mutters. It’s not a teasing kind of voice. The room goes quiet and Mickey’s mouth goes dry. He knew this was going to happen. He knew they wouldn’t be safe here. People are staring, some of them a lot angrier now.

“Someone got something to say?” Mickey asks. He keeps his voice controlled, but he hopes no one can tell that his hands are starting to shake.

“Mick,” Ian says. “It’s fine.”

“I just think if someone wants to start some shit, they might as well do it now,” Mickey says. Ian rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue and he doesn’t move away.

“No one’s got a problem, right?” Joel says, half question and half warning. “Go on and get back to your game. I’m going over there with the old timers. You boys have a good time.”

It’s almost like a command. People turn away and go back to their conversations, just like that. Mickey had no idea Joel had so much sway in town. Joel laughs at the look on Mickey’s face.

“My dad was the mayor for most of my life,” he explains. “People have always listened to me.”

He turns back to his friends. Mickey tries to focus on Ian and the guys he works with for the rest of the night. He can tell they’re still being watched. It makes him feel twitchy, but at least he knows Joel will have their backs if push comes to shove.

Liam’s asleep in front of the TV when they get home. Mickey hunts around him for the remote to turn the TV off. When he turns back around, Ian’s just standing there smiling at him.

“We had fun, right?” He asks, all hopeful. Mickey wouldn’t call that fun. He would’ve had way more fun staying here, being comfortable and not dealing with people watching him, but he knows Ian’s not as much of a hermit as Mickey.

“Sure,” Mickey says. It would be stupid to outright agree with Ian. Ian laughs, because he knows exactly what Mickey’s thinking, but he crowds in close and kisses Mickey.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “I know you didn’t want to come. But I’m glad you did. Now you want to come again? The good way?”

“Hell yes,” Mickey says.

“Okay, let me just take Liam to bed,” Ian says. He lifts his little brother up like it’s nothing, even though the kid’s almost as tall as Mickey. Mickey goes into their room and stretches out on the bed to wait. It only takes a few minutes; it’s not like Liam’s a baby and Ian has to get him tucked in or anything like that. Ian comes in and lies down beside Mickey. He curls up right into Mickey’s side, resting his head on Mickey’s arm.

“We’re getting good at this relationship thing,” Ian says. “Don’t you think?”

Mickey snorts. “How the fuck would I know?”

“No, I mean, me neither,” Ian admits. “But I think we’re doing it right. It feels like we’re doing it right, doesn’t it?”

Mickey actually thinks that over. Ian’s voice is light, but Mickey can tell he’s being serious. Mickey shrugs, moving Ian’s head with his arm. “Guess so,” he says. “Feels…I don’t know. Good.”

Ian huffs. “Yeah, feels good,” he echoes, kind of dryly. “You thinking about what I’m getting ready to do to make you feel good?”

Mickey quirks an eyebrow and looks down at Ian. “I wasn’t assuming anything.”

Ian laughs out loud. “Bullshit. You knew coming with me would get you laid.”

“Not like I have to do shit to get laid,” Mickey points out. “I walk in the door and you’re gagging for it.”

Ian’s cracking up. “Oh, yeah, and I have to really twist your arm to get you into bed.”

“Fuck no,” Mickey says. “I’m always ready for you to fuck me. Not like we’ve ever had to work for it. Either one of us.”

Ian rolls on top of him, smiling. “Yeah,” he says, kind of soft now. “That’s what I mean about us getting good at this. Feels like we got the good parts from before but we’re better at the shit we did wrong.”

Mickey thinks about them screaming at each other in front of the Gallagher house and then going inside and curling up together in bed, thinks about Ian walking outside sometimes when he’s feeling suffocated and Mickey not immediately thinking he’s taking off, thinks about kissing good morning and not wondering who else Ian’s going to be kissing before they kiss good night.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, throat feeling tight now. “Know what you mean.”

Ian presses down against Mickey and leans in for a kiss. Mickey doesn’t have to work very hard at all to put everything else out of his mind and just focus on Ian. That’s one thing he’s never had to learn.

Joel looks a little sheepish when Mickey shows up for work on Monday. He shakes his head when Mickey comes into the barn to get his boots. “Didn’t mean to be so rowdy,” he says. “How I get when I drink.”

Mickey actually stops changing his shoes to give Joel an incredulous look. “You call that rowdy?” He asks. “Getting drunk and rowdy in my family means shooting at each other’s feet to see who can jump the fastest.”

Joel makes a face. “That’s just stupid. Put holes in the floor and risk losing a toe.”

Mickey shrugs. “Neither of those ever mattered.”

Joel looks like he probably has some things he’d like to say about that, but he moves past it. “Anyway, I hope I wasn’t getting too many people looking at you. Know I can get a bit loud.”

Mickey shrugs again. “They were all looking anyway.”

“Most of them would never do you any harm,” Joel promises. “And the ones that would only would if they could do it anonymously.”

Mickey scoffs. “At least where I come from people own up to it.”

Joel shrugs. “At least this way keeps you safer.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mickey says. He grabs a bucket and starts milking. He’s old hat at it now; never has any issues with the cows. Getting kicked is all but a distant memory.

“New guy coming out after lunch,” Joel says from across the barn. “Just coming through town, some kind of drifter or something. Needed some work. People tend to throw the less savory characters my way.” He’s definitely talking shit about Mickey right now. Mickey stretches his arm up to flip Joel off without even looking, and he hears Joel laughing about it.

“What’s he going to do?” Mickey asks. “Shovel snow?”

“Yeah, might as well,” Joel says. “Not that much to do at this point in the year, but I’m sure we can find him something. If we take on new hands, that’ll make you the foreman.”

“Do I get a raise?” Mickey asks, mostly joking.

“Nope,” Joel says placidly. Now Mickey laughs.

Mickey doesn’t think much else about it. As they’re just finishing up lunch, they hear a truck outside.

“Right on time,” Birdy says approvingly.

“If it’s him,” Mickey says. “Could be the FedEx guy.”

“Can’t be Bill,” Joel counters. “Angus is barking and he doesn’t bark at Bill. Knows him too well.”

“He still barks at me,” Mickey says.

“Yeah, well, that’s ‘cause he’s a smart dog,” Joel says.

Mickey’s still laughing about it when they go outside. He catches sight of the guy hopping out of the passenger side of a truck and all the air in his lungs leaves him with a _whoosh_. He knows the guy in the truck. His name is Javier. The last time Mickey saw him was in Mexico, just before he took off to go back to Ian.

They sent Javier to kill him.

Mickey wouldn’t normally be worried about a guy like Javier. He’s scrawny and young, eager to please but without much smarts or skills to back it up. But what this does tell Mickey is the cartel really is on the way down. They’d have to be desperate as shit to send Javier, of all people, to kill Mickey.

The downside of that is Javier’s going to be desperate, too, and desperate hit men don’t exactly stop to worry about collateral damage or subtlety. Mickey glances over to Joel, who hasn’t noticed anything amiss. He’s shooting the shit with the guy driving the truck. Mickey recognizes him from Friday night at the bar.

Mickey glances back at Javier. Javier shakes his head, not even minutely or anything. Mickey rolls his eyes a little, but he gives a tiny nod. Javier wants him to play it cool, so he’ll play it cool. He doesn’t want to have a showdown anywhere near Joel and Birdy. Joel says goodbye to the guy in the truck and he drives off. Then Joel kind of looks Javier up and down. Mickey can practically see him worrying from here.

“I’ll get him set up with some boots,” Mickey offers.

Joel looks kind of surprised. “Okay,” he says.

Mickey nods toward the barn and Javier follows him. Joel doesn’t come with them, but he’s not very far off. “Be cool,” Mickey breathes, trying not to move his mouth. “I’ll do what you want, but not here.”

“Fine,” Javier says. “Let’s go.”

“Jesus, you want him to follow us?” Mickey asks. “He’ll know something’s wrong if we just take off. You’re gonna have to shovel some snow first.”

Javier doesn’t complain. He’s already sweating. Christ, he’s so nervous Mickey could probably take him out now. But Javier has a gun in the small of his back, and Mickey doesn’t know how good his aim is. He’d rather not risk it here, where Joel or Birdy or one of the animals could get caught by a stray bullet.

They shovel snow and Mickey checks on the fences in the far pasture. When he gets back, he gives Javier a look. Javier shrugs. Mickey has to bite his lip to stop from scoffing out loud. He mimes puking. Understanding dawns on Javier’s face.

“Oh, no, I don’t feel good,” he says. He’s a shit actor. Mickey rolls his eyes again. There is no way this kid was going to last long in the cartel if Mickey hadn’t shut it down.

“I’ll take him back to wherever he’s staying,” Mickey says quickly.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Javier adds.

Joel looks between them a few times. “Don’t worry about it, man,” Mickey says. “Let me just take him back.”

“Okay,” Joel says slowly. “Let me go get his pay.”

He goes inside. Mickey looks over at Javier. “You gonna put a bullet in my head while I’m fucking driving?”

“Do I look stupid?” Javier asks. Mickey just raises his eyebrows. He probably shouldn’t be antagonizing the guy who came to kill him, but Jesus. Javier is _bad_ at this. Luckily, Joel comes back with an envelope right after that, so Javier doesn’t have time to get pissed at Mickey for insulting him.

“Everything alright?” Joel asks Mickey in an undertone.

“We’re cool,” Mickey promises. It’s not entirely an answer, and Joel narrows his eyes, but then he just nods.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

“Bye.”

As soon as Mickey pulls out of the driveway, Javier pulls out his gun. He keeps it pretty loose in his lap, pointed in Mickey’s direction. If Mickey wasn’t worried about crashing into the guardrail, he could pretty easily get it away from Javier. Whatever. He’ll do it when they get wherever they’re going.

“Where to?” Mickey asks.

“Your house,” Javier says. “Where you live with your _boyfriend_.” He gives Mickey a smug look. “I’ve been watching you for a whole week and you didn’t even notice.”

Mickey does not like the idea of him knowing where they live. “Found me in Chicago?” He guesses. Javier nods and Mickey swallows hard. He must’ve seen Mickey at the Gallagher house. Debbie and Lip both have kids there now. Christ, Svetlana brought Yevgeny there.

“You do anything to the people living there?” Mickey asks, trying to sound casual.

A hint of unease flickers in Javier’s eyes. “No,” he says. “I am just here for you.”

It’s a weakness Mickey can lay into. Javier doesn’t want to kill anyone. Mickey could’ve guessed that about him, but it’s nice to get some confirmation. He keeps quiet on the rest of the drive. Javier’s not really the type to gloat or try to goad Mickey about all this. He’s practically trembling while he sits there in the car. Mickey almost feels bad for him.

He comes to a stop in front of the house and looks over at Javier. “What now?”

“You get out first,” he instructs, lifting the gun a little higher. “Then come around to me.”

Mickey could almost laugh. “Sure.” He comes around the truck. When Javier’s stepping out, it’s all too easy to jump on his back, wrestle him to the ground, and grab the gun. Hell, Mickey almost feels _guilty_ about it.

“Sorry, kid,” Mickey says. “Not like I’m just going to let you kill me.”

Javier lets out a string of fast Spanish Mickey recognizes. He only ever learned the swear words and how to tell someone he was going to kill them. “Okay, do it,” Javier says. He doesn’t even try to get off the ground. He closes his eyes and waits for Mickey to kill him.

Mickey looks down at him. He tips his head back and groans at the sky. “Christ, get up.” Javier gets up and Mickey walks him backward toward the cellar. “Come on,” Mickey says. “Get in here.” He takes Javier inside and makes him sit on the chair Mickey left in there for this kind of eventuality. Mickey zip-ties his feet to the chair but leaves his hands free. There’s no real chance Javier’s going to pull one over on Mickey, and Mickey stashes the gun away once they get inside.

Mickey folds his arms and looks down at Javier. “What you doing taking dirty work like this?” He asks. “Who even gave you the job? Cartel’s fucking dying.”

“Yeah, because _you_ snitched,” Javier points out with a sneer. “Hector asked me to do it.”

“Hector’s locked up,” Mickey says. “He sent you a job from inside and you said yes?”

“You do not say no to Hector,” Javier says. It’s the kind of thing little kids in the street would whisper when Hector asked them to run notes or drugs to people. Mickey rolls his eyes.

“He’s never getting out,” Mickey says. “I don’t think it’s going to take very long for his little empire to fall. He’ll always have some power inside, but not so much in the real world. That shit takes a lot of upkeep to hold onto, and all the guys he would’ve had doing that upkeep are locked up, too.”

“I’m one of his guys,” Javier says uncertainly.

“Man, I’m not trying to be a dick, but there is no way Hector thought you’d be able to kill me,” Mickey says. “Hector knows what I can do. They sent you because it’s possible you could get lucky, but they wouldn’t care too much if I killed you.”

Javier’s brow furrows as he takes that in. “No,” he starts.

“They pay you up front or say wait until after?” Mickey asks.

Javier licks his lips, eyes darting around. “The money’s tight right now.”

“Oh, fuck, they didn’t pay you _at all_?” Mickey asks incredulously. “They didn’t even think you were going to get lucky. Jesus, they were using me to tie you up as a loose end. That’s fucked up.”

“Hector said he trusted me.” Javier’s voice peters out by the end.

“Sorry, kid,” Mickey says. He actually kind of means it.

Javier hangs his head. “Okay,” he says. “Will you do it fast or torture me first?”

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Mickey says. He’s almost as surprised as Javier. “But you can’t go back. You’ll have to get a new ID and start over. Maybe California. Lots of Mexicans there, I guess.”

“That’s because California _was_ Mexico,” Javier says disdainfully. “Stupid Americans don’t even know history.”

“Alright, Einstein, calm down,” Mickey says. “I’m doing you a favor here.”

“What if I say no?” Javier asks. He’s getting bolder now that he realized Mickey really doesn’t want to kill him.

“Then I kill you,” Mickey says bluntly. “I do shit I don’t want to all the goddamn time, okay? And I grew up with a dad a lot like Hector. I can close my eyes and still put a bullet between yours.”

Javier’s eyes are big and round. He’s like seventeen. Mickey doesn’t have to wonder how he got mixed up with cartel. It’s the same story a lot of guys had; their families were poor, there weren’t enough jobs to go around, and the cartel grabbed them when they were teenagers to get them early. Javier actually stayed out of the cartel longer than most. Mickey’s seen kids younger than Liam running drugs to different houses. Terry used his kids as soon as they were old enough to walk and understand not to eat whatever he gave them.

“What am I supposed to do?” Javier asks. His voice wobbles a little. “Hector is the only family I have.”

“You mean cartel family or actual family?” Mickey asks.

“My cousin.”

“Shit,” Mickey says. He’d make a comment about how fucked up that family is, but he definitely has no room to talk. He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll make you a new ID,” he decides. “We got the stuff here. I can’t give you that much money, but enough to get you somewhere else. Then just lay low, okay? Do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Why?” Javier asks. “Why don’t you just kill me?”

“Fuck if I know,” Mickey admits. “Maybe ‘cause you’re young.”

“Maybe you’re soft now,” Javier says. “Sucked too much dick.”

“Do you want me to kill you?” Mickey asks flatly.

Javier shrinks down in the chair, as much as he can while he’s zip-tied. “No.”

“Just keep your mouth shut, got it?” Mickey asks. “Not like anyone’s going to come here, but don’t get cute and try yelling for help if you hear someone out there.”

“You’re leaving me here?” Javier asks.

“Yep.”

Mickey leaves without another backward look. He grabs a padlock from one of the windows and bolts the door from the outside. Then he heads into the house and takes a shower. He didn’t work as long as usual, so he doesn’t need a shower as bad as he normally does after work. But it’s part of his routine now, and he’s all wound up with the whole Javier situation. Mickey lets the water beat against his back and he tries not to think about how stupid he’s being. There’s no reason to leave Javier alive. He knows where they live, and he could rat them out to anyone.

The thing is, though, Mickey’s so fucking tired of death and murder and drugs and lies. He doesn’t want to deal with burying a body and he doesn’t want to deal with the nightmares he always gets after he does. Besides, he’s already tired and he really doesn’t feel like digging a hole.

He takes a nap and wakes up to Ian and Liam coming home. Neither of them mention Javier, so Mickey figures Javier must’ve done what he’s told. But after Liam goes to his room, Ian sits by Mickey on the couch with his eyebrows raised.

“What’s in the cellar?”

“What’d you hear?” Mickey asks.

“Nothing, but there’s a new padlock on the outside.”

“Look at you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Ian gives him a look. “Mickey.”

“Don’t freak out,” Mickey warns.

“Jesus, that is the worst way to start a sentence.”

“Cartel guy came after me,” Mickey says.

Ian blinks. “You got a dead body in the cellar?”

“No,” Mickey says, almost defensive about it. “I didn’t kill him.”

Ian takes this in. “Were you waiting for me or something?”

Mickey looks at Ian incredulously. “The fuck would I wait for you for?” He asks. “Like that’s my idea of a fucking date?”

Ian laughs a little. “I don’t know why else you’d wait.”

Mickey sighs. “I’m not killing him. He’s—fuck, Ian, he’s a kid. They wouldn’t have sent him if they had anyone else. I told him I’ll give him a fake ID and he has to get out of here and not come back. He’s not going back to the cartel.”

Ian just stares for a minute. “Let me get this straight. The cartel sent a guy to kill you. He knows where we live. And you’re letting him go?”

Mickey looks down at his hands. He can hear Terry’s voice in his head, screaming at him for being a pussy and never being man enough to do what has to be done. Mickey swallows. “I’m fucking tired, Ian.” His voice comes out all raspy, hollow and low.

Ian pulls Mickey closer. He kisses Mickey’s temple. “I know.”

“You want me to kill him?” Mickey asks. He knows he should. Maybe Ian can talk him into it.

“No,” Ian says. He tightens his arms around Mickey. “I trust you, Mick. If you say we’ll be safe without killing him, then I know we’ll be safe without killing him.”

Mickey has to swallow hard a few times before he can talk. “Why?”

Ian pushes Mickey back a little to look him in the eye. “You’re the one who knows the cartel. Besides, you’ve always taken care of me. All you’ve ever done is make sure I’m safe,” he says softly. “It’s about time I trust you to do it the way you think is best, right?”

Mickey drops his head to rest on Ian’s shoulder. “I have to make him a fake ID.”

Ian starts laughing. “Guy follows you home to kill you and you set him up with a whole new life.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey says. “Guess I’m just a pussy like my dad always said.”

“Nah,” Ian says. He’s smiling. “Guess you’re just a better man than Terry could ever understand.”

It’s not like that’s a high bar to clear. But for some reason, hearing that from Ian means the world.

Joel squints at Mickey when he gets to work in the morning. He doesn’t say anything, so Mickey ignores the looks Joel keeps shooting him and milks some cows. Finally, when they get back to the barn after driving around to throw feed out to the non-milk cows, Joel says,

“You got a dead kid buried in your yard somewhere?”

“Uh, no,” Mickey says. “Why? Do you?”

Joel rolls his eyes. “I might’ve been born at night, but it wasn’t _last_ night. Doesn’t take a genius to know something was up with that kid who showed up yesterday.”

Mickey sighs and takes off his gloves. “I went to prison when I was nineteen for attempted murder,” he starts. “That was bullshit, by the way. But I already had a rap sheet and my whole family had a rap sheet and I got a shitty public defender, so whatever. Anyway. I, uh.” Mickey rubs the back of his neck. “I busted out. Long story. Went down to Mexico, worked with a cartel. Pretty much the same shit I always did working with my dad, so, you know, I had some skills. Then I found out Ian was in trouble. So I rolled on the cartel and used my leverage to get locked up with Ian. That guy yesterday was the one the cartel sent after me.”

Joel doesn’t say anything for an entire minute. He’s just looking at Mickey, like he’s waiting for Mickey to say _gotcha_ and say it was all a joke. Finally, Joel says, “They sent _that_ kid after you?”

Mickey huffs. “Yeah. Well, I was high up enough in the cartel to do some real damage to their top guys. And even their middle guys. All that’s left is a few kids like that. They’ll scatter off to other cartels before long. Or the other cartels will kill them.”

Joel taps a finger on the bed of the truck. “So what’d you do?” Joel asks. “About the kid?”

“I handled it,” Mickey says.

Joel looks up. “You said you didn’t kill him.”

“I didn’t.” Mickey gets a little defensive over how dubious Joel looks. “I _didn’t_. The cartel’s got no one else to send after me. That kid isn’t going to talk. I set him up with a fake ID and told him to scram.”

Joel crosses his arms. “Sounds a little risky.”

“You ever killed someone?” Mickey asks.

Joel looks surprised. “Lot of someones,” he admits quietly, shocking the hell out of Mickey. “Was a sniper in Vietnam.”

“So you killed ‘em in a war, from far away,” Mickey points out. “I’ve been two feet away while my dad beat a dude to death. And then I had to dump the body. I was twelve. That’s been my whole fucking life. And I’m done. I’m not doing that anymore. I got away from my dad, I got away from the cartel, and now I’m calling the shots myself. And I say no more.”

Mickey had been conflicted about it last night, but now it’s like a weight off him. Ian approves, and that’s the only judgment Mickey cares about. If Mickey has a choice, he’s not burying another body for the rest of his life.

Joel swallows hard. “Oh.”

“That some kinda problem?” Mickey asks.

“That you’re not going to kill anyone?” Joel asks.

“That I’ve done that shit in the past,” Mickey says. “Don’t want me around? Don’t want me close to your wife? Think I’m some trash lowlife murderer who needs to stay far away?” That’s the kind of shit Mickey’s used to hearing.

Joel sighs. “You know, I never hit my boy,” he says. It’s a weird subject change. “But I guess there’s other ways to do it wrong. Didn’t love him enough, maybe. Didn’t talk about important things. He moved across the country and doesn’t talk to me anymore. Barely talks to Birdy, even though I’m the one he hates.”

Mickey snorts and rolls his eyes, thinking he sees where Joel’s going with this now. “So, what, you think I’m your fucking do-over or something? Gonna try to be my new dad? Fix all my problems and turn me into a real boy?”

Joel laughs softly. “I think you’re probably fucked up beyond anything I could fix.”

That makes Mickey laugh out loud. “Yeah. So what then?”

Joel shrugs. “So maybe I don’t know that I’m some kind of moral authority who gets to decide if you’re good enough to hang around. You do good work, Mickey. And Birdy thinks the sun shines out your ass. So I guess, long as you’re saying you’re walking the line now, I don’t really care what you got into before. I know you now, and that’s good enough. Guessing you didn’t have a lot of choices in your life, anyway. Maybe that gives you some more slack.”

Mickey doesn’t know why his eyes are suddenly burning. Maybe it’s just that no one’s ever come out and said something like that, made it seem like he could actually change and be different from his dad if he wanted to. Ian’s sort of said it, in different words, but Ian tends to make excuses for Mickey and forgive him way more easily than anyone else does. Joel’s just some outsider, someone who doesn’t even know a fraction of the shit Terry put Mickey through or a fraction of the shit Mickey’s done. But somehow he still thinks Mickey might end up turning out okay, after all.

“Okay,” Mickey manages to choke out.

“Okay,” Joel says definitively. “Should we get back to work?”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees.

“Alright.” They head over to the chicken coop to fix some of the insulation. After a while of working quietly, Joel says, “You know, I don’t have to be your new dad to be pissed at your old one. He or anyone else ever comes to give you trouble, I want you to let me know. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He laughs a little. He doesn’t understand, not really. He doesn’t understand why Joel would care enough to do it. He doesn’t understand why Joel and Birdy want to keep him around. Hell, he barely understands why Ian does. But he understands what Joel’s saying. He understands that Joel’s offering to look out for Mickey, to keep him and Ian and Liam safe. He’s offering to be another person watching their backs. Mickey shakes his head a little, but he’s smiling. “I understand.”

Mickey’s got an arm half out the window, driving with one lazy hand on the steering wheel. He knows the hills well enough to drive them with his eyes closed by now. He’s tired and kind of dirty after a day of planting. He’s passing fields that are all brown with freshly overturned dirt; everyone’s doing their planting now. Come summer, these fields will be green with alfalfa and corn stalks.

Mickey takes a curve in the road easily. Three more curves like that and a left turn and he’ll be home. Ian’s all raring to go with their fucking garden. Mickey pointed out how annoying it is to plant all day at work and then come home and have to do it some more. Plus, Joel has heavy equipment to do his planting. They don’t have shit at home. Ian just ignored all his complaints, as per fucking usual. When Ian gets going on a project, he goes all the way. Mickey would be worried about Ian's mental state if Ian _weren’t_ determined to see this whole thing through.

Mickey has some tools in the back of the truck. Joel sent him with shovels and hoes and gloves and Birdy sent a bunch of seed packets. They’re going to plant green beans and raspberries and pumpkins. Liam’s pretending he’s too old to care about pumpkins, but Mickey heard him on the phone with Fiona talking about picking his own pumpkin to carve for Halloween. Halloween’s a long way’s away, but he didn’t have a shred of doubt in his voice when he talked about it.

They’re planting a garden because they’re sticking around to deal with that garden. They’re putting down roots, literally, and they’re not going anywhere. No more running. No more wondering what’s to come. This is their home. This is their family. This is their life.

Mandy’s coming to visit in a few weeks. She’s got some job out in New York, not a waitressing job or a hooker job. She’s in sales or something, so Mickey’s willing to bet she’s still using her tits a fair amount in that job, but still. She knows she can always come to them if she needs to.

She still thinks it’s kind of funny that they live out in the boonies. They live so far from their closest neighbor, they can’t even hear anyone screaming or fighting with each other. Mickey wasn’t so sure he was going to like it when they first got here. He meant it when he told Ian he didn’t really care where they were as long as they were together, but he also secretly knew he was going to be miserable. The thing is, though—he was wrong. He likes having space between him and neighbors. He likes having space, period. He likes not hearing sirens and cars and gunshots all the time. He likes the sound the wind makes in the corn and he likes being able to look up and actually see the stars. He thinks cheesy shit like that all the time now. And he _likes_ it.

Mickey takes the last turn and crunches the gravel under his tires. Liam’s on the lawn playing with the puppy Mickey brought home a few weeks ago. Joel’s dog Angus got some neighbor farmer’s dog knocked up, and Mickey had finally relented on the dog front. They’re not really hurting to put food on the table, and he’s not worried about the cartel anymore. There’s no reason Liam can’t have a dog except Mickey being an asshole, and Mickey can admit, only secretly to himself, that maybe he’s got a soft spot for Ian’s kid brother.

And if Mickey slips the stupid thing a few treats when no one’s looking, that’s his own business.

Ian looks over from where he’s pulling up weeds in the garden. He sits back on his heels when he sees Mickey, a big smile taking over his face. He waves, all dorky. His face is covered in freckles from being outside so much. He has dirt on his cheek and his hair’s getting too long. It’s starting to curl again, especially around his ears.

Mickey doesn’t wave back. He hops out of the truck and grabs the hoe and the shovels from the back.

“Coming to finally help me?” Ian teases.

Mickey doesn’t answer, just crosses the yard over to him. He leans down and gives Ian a kiss. “That the kind of help you meant?” He asks.

Ian laughs a little. “No, dumbass, I meant get down here and pull some fucking weeds.”

Mickey huffs and shoves Ian over into the dirt. They wrestle around a little, both laughing. The puppy runs over and starts yapping and licking at them. Mickey relaxes back into the dirt, the sun on his face and Ian’s weight across his body. He leans up and kisses Ian again. And then they get back to work, side by side, right there together. Just like they always should be.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


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